


aegis

by purple01_prose



Series: aegis-verse [1]
Category: Batgirl (Comics), Journey into Mystery, Thor (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Female Character, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Female Character In Command, Female Friendship, POV Female Character, Pairings TBA, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:17:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 119,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple01_prose/pseuds/purple01_prose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephanie did actually die on the table at the end of War Games. Except, well, the universe--or some weird guy dressed in Norse-Meets-RenFaire garb--had slightly different plans. Now she's stuck babysitting a baby trickster, and really, who the hell is in charge of her life, diary?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> A few things.
> 
> A) This takes place directly after Steph's Batgirl run, and it treats the Nu52 as a Crisis, because it is one. In JiM, it takes place directly before Fear Itself.
> 
> B) Steph's characterization comes almost entirely from Miller's take on her during said Batgirl run. Don't worry--this will be addressed, but not necessarily in this story.
> 
> C) Potential triggering content: flashbacks to torture (nothing graphic), implied/offscreen bullying, surviving sexual abuse, child abuse. If there was something contained here that was a trigger that I did not mention, give me a shout-out and I'll add it. I would hate for someone to read this blind, and be triggered.
> 
> D) This story is a behemouth. There is a reason why this fic is tagged on my tumblr as 'monstrous fic of doom.'
> 
> E) I will be borrowing some things from MCU canon, but nothing major. The most important is that I'm borrowing Idris Elba's Heimdall, because GOD, that man. The other thing will not show up until later.
> 
> EDIT: F) After reading the entirety of the Cassandra Clare/Claire history, I'm going to say this right now: all of the shout-outs, all of the quotes--THEY ARE NOT MINE. I think I did an okay job in referencing the source in the quote itself, but if not, let me know and I'll see if I can rework it. They're intended as good-humored homage, but if they do not come across that way, please let me know. Steph's the type of person to rationalize what's happening to her through the lens of what media she has consumed, but if you see a quote that seems to be intended to be original, give me a head's up, please. Thank you.

**“Look. (Grown-ups skip this paragraph). I’m not about to tell you this book has a tragic ending, I already said in the very first line how it was my favorite in all the world. But there’s a lot of bad stuff coming.”**

                                                                        William Goldman, _The Princess Bride_

 

 

When Stephanie Brown ‘died’ on the table, she found herself in what could only be described as a ‘lair.’ It had all of the requisites: a smoky atmosphere, books stacked on shelves on the opposite wall, a _green_ fire in some sort of brazier and a creepy-looking person standing with his back to her, wearing a hugely horned helmet, and green and yellow clothing.

 

He looked like a RenFaire reject, in all honesty. Not that she’d know—the RenFaire usually tended to avoid Gotham at all costs.

 

“Where am I?” she demanded. Hey, she’s always been a little too confrontational for her own good. Exhibit A: Becoming Spoiler.

 

He turned towards her, and his face...Steph had never given that whole “he might’ve been handsome once but hate/fear/negative emotion had twisted his features” a lot of stock before, but _wow_ , she’s seeing it with new eyes. “Someplace safe.”

 

She crossed her arms, starting to tap her foot. “I know for a fact my heart just stopped. Is this the afterlife?”

 

“No, Hel is much less pleasant,” he told her, moving past her to reach for a book on the shelf. Well-used to Batman and Tim, she spotted the subterfuge for what it was. “Also, you are not dead.”

 

She pressed her lips together. “Why not?” I was ready, she thought. I was ready to give all of this up.

 

“Because you still have use,” he informed her, scanning the book’s contents. “Or rather, _I_ still have use of you.”

 

“Sorry, I’m not that type of girl,” she hissed, backing up a step. She could’ve been that girl, but between Spoiler, Batman, and Robin, she would never be _that_ girl.

 

He rolled his eyes. “That is not what I was insinuating. You mortals are quick to jump to insult.”

 

She filed that away. “I was born and raised in Gotham, whoever you are. When a creepy older man says something like that to a girl my age, there is only one meaning.”

 

He cocked his head, looking her over. “Fair enough. My name is Loki.”

 

She peered at him. “Like, Norse God Loki?”

 

“You haven’t heard of me? No, of course you wouldn’t,” he murmured. “But yes, I am Loki, and there are many that would describe me as a God. Norse—well, that’s certainly up for discussion. I know that you are Stephanie Brown, daughter of Arthur Brown, AKA the Cluemaster, and that you started this whole war inadvertently.” He smiled at her in honest...joy? Good humor? Either way, it made him look _years_ younger. “I appreciate a good bit of chaos.”

 

“If you know I started this inadvertently, than why am I here?”

 

He snapped the book shut. “Like I said, I still have use of you. Allow me to put it this way: I am saving your life.”

 

“Pretty sure my life just ended, bub.”

 

He opened his hand, and a golden apple sat there. She half-expected it to say ‘For the Fairest.’ “I cannot give you this whole apple. Mortal bodies and an entire apple of Iðunn—well, it will not end well. But a few slices will heal your body of all injuries, and rejuvenate your spirit.”

 

“In exchange for what?” she asked, looking him over suspiciously.

 

“The time may come that I need help.”

 

“And how exactly will I know that?”

 

“I’ll contact you,” he began to look amused. “Trust me, you will receive word. When that time comes, I will need protection, a champion.” He placed the book on the wooden table, leaning against it and crossing his arms. “I have been watching you, Miss Brown. You have a fighting spirit, and you do not like injustice.”

 

“Does _anyone_? No, seriously,” she glared at him. “If you’ve been in a position where you’ve been victimized, could you allow anyone else to be victimized in any way?”

 

He looked thrown for a moment, before his face resettled with that faint smile of amusement. “That is the protection I was speaking of. You still have a part to play in your realm, just as I have a part to play in mine. But there will come a time when your presence becomes...superfluous. It will be unmistakable. When that time comes—that is when I will need you.”

 

“So, in exchange for a few slices of that ~magical apple, I will have to protect you and be your champion when you tell me so,” she mulled it over. “What’s the catch?”

 

“No catch. For once, this is a cut-and-dry matter. I will sweeten the deal on your side of it—Roman Sionius, the ‘Black Mask,’ the man who has in essence killed you? I’ll make sure he faces punishment for his crimes.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“His fate will be appropriately grisly,” he assured her. “Do we have a deal?”

 

“This part I still have to play,” she hesitated, “what will it entail?”

 

“You will be given an opportunity to prove yourself and your mettle. You will seize it with all due aplomb. I cannot speak more of it, but it will be a proud time of your history.”

 

She hesitated a bit, and finally sighed, holding out a hand. “Gimme.”

 

He smiled again, this time with a touch of malice, and three golden apple slices landed on her hand.

 

\--

 

Black Mask died, and there is no evidence.

 

No one’s sure if they should be concerned or if there should be a celebration.

 

But Stephanie sees the headline, and remembers her deal.

 

\--

 

There’s a touch to the air that if you’ve lived through a Crisis, you can tell when another’s coming.

 

Stephanie was lucky.

 

She’d lived through _three_ , all relatively unscathed. Not like Tim. Or Dick. Or Babs.

 

The air takes on a slightly-metallic quality, until it tastes like you’re breathing in copper and breathing out iron. The taste of old blood settles under your tongue and even if you retch and retch, emptying your stomach of all that could have upset it, the taste of old blood remains.

 

She traces her stretch marks, her scars from her torture, her remnants from beginning as a teen vigilante, and she remembers the taste of blood in her mouth. Whatever is coming—

 

Suddenly, Babs is muttering about rehabilitation, when Steph knows for a _fact_ Babs has refused it before. Proxy’s gone. Cass is gone. Damian hasn’t talked to her in weeks.

 

Her mother is starting to blink whenever she sees Steph, like she forgot about her daughter until Steph was in front of her.

 

Dick is becoming Nightwing again.

 

Tim’s become even harder, and he had been starting to get better. He’s talking about safe houses, and he’s changing his uniform. He’s wearing Green Lantern shirts. He’s forgotten about Kon again.

 

She’s becoming...superfluous.

 

She starts to keep two bags at the foot of her bed. One holds all of her favorite combinations of Batarangs and her Spoiler outfit, as well as other weapons she’s pretty sure Bruce doesn’t know she has. A Taser. A pocketknife with a really sharp blade. Some stun bombs....Other things.

 

The other bag holds all of the money she has to her name. It has her clothes, her laptop and charger cord, her phone and her emergency Bat communicator.

 

She withdraws from Gotham U. She doesn’t have any student loans, and every cent was paid for, so the debt people won’t be haunting her mother.

 

It comes to a head with a magpie dropping off an envelope at her feet before continuing on his way.

 

\--

 

The package contained a rune (with specific directions on how to pronounce it, which she kinda appreciated and she kinda hated because hey, she’s not _illiterate_ ) and a postcard with spiky handwriting (it reminded her _way_ too much of Severus Snape) simply stating, “ _Now_.”

 

She grabs her bags, kisses her mother goodbye (Crystal blinks and doesn’t recognize her), and follows the directions and winds up on a floating castle thing in what looks like Oklahoma.

 

No seriously, _it’s a floating castle thing over Oklahoma._

 

She lets the duffel bag drop to her feet and puts a hand on her forehead to shade her eyes as she looks it over. Traveling here felt uncomfortably like how traveling by Portkey was described (that hook to the navel? When you’re not expecting it, UM). There’s no one within visible sight, but she can hear them.

 

Steph sighs, picks her bag back up, and starts walking.

 

\--

 

Of course, the first person she runs into is _hot_.

 

Actually, he looks like Idris Elba (why, yes, in fact, she _does_ watch Luther and pesters Babs over the plotline/characters/twists/etc), and _wow_ , she is weirdly turned on for a guy who’s probably wearing three times his body weight in golden armor.

 

“Who are you?” Idris Elba rumbles at her (like, no joke. He’s actually _rumbling_ , and her ladyboner isn’t going anywhere any time soon).

 

“Um, my name is Stephanie Brown? I was invited, in a weird say-this-rune-and-you’ll-be-where-you-need-to-be-kind-of-way.”

 

He holds a hand out for the postcard; she fishes it out and places it on his palm. He looks it over, looks at the image on the back (she hadn’t examined it too closely—all she saw were magpies), but it seems to make sense to him, and he hands it back to her. “My name is Heimdall. I have summoned Thor and King Baldr. They will be here momentarily.”

 

“Wait, so my name _is_ on the guest list?”

 

“Not entirely. Thor and King Baldr will explain.”

 

It’s enough of a wait that she starts to get curious. “So, where are we, exactly?”

 

“Do you always follow unclear directions?”

 

She shrugs. “Kinda my MO?”

 

Idris Elba-Heimdall gives her this strange look, before he clarifies, “Asgardia. The original Asgard fell, but Thor created Asgardia out of the dust of Broxton, Oklahoma.”

 

“So, is he a powerful magician or something?” Because magicians _do_ exist where she comes from, thankyouverymuch, but she’d never heard of Dr. Fate or Zatanna doing that.

 

“He is not,” Idris Elba-Heimdall says flatly, and even she can tell when a subject is closed.

 

Luckily for her, that’s when Thor and King Baldr ride up.

 

They’re _huge_.

 

She’s used to being one of the smaller ones in the Batfam (at least she’s taller than _Tim_ ), but seeing three guys all roughly Bruce’s size? She’d hoped Bruce was one of a kind.

 

Guess not.

 

“Heimdall, for what purpose have we been summoned?” the blond one in a black tunic with what looks like chainmail as his bodysuit demands.

 

“Thor, this woman is Stephanie Brown, and she claims to have been invited,” Idris Elba-Heimdall says politely. The guy wearing a purple hood and a crown sweeps himself off his horse and comes over to her.

 

She braces herself as he looks her over. “May I see this invitation?” he asks mildly enough, holding out a gloved hand.

 

“Of course,” she puts it in his hand, and briefly thinks about curtseying before remembering she’s in jeans and a jacket, and also, this guy (clearly Baldr), is not her king.

 

He looks it over carefully, running his fingertips over the edge of the postcard. Thor comes over, and are his arm muscles bigger than her _head_? Definitely feeling intimidated, Diary. King Baldr passes the postcard to Thor, who handles it a lot more gently than his huge hands would suggest (she’s reminded suddenly of Bruce, and how carefully he handles laser scalpels that are dwarfed by his palms).

 

“Clearly, this is Loki’s mischief,” Baldr tells them all.

 

“I disagree, my king, Loki’s current state would not allow for such trickery.”

 

“Clearly, then, before he died, he engaged in this.” Baldr looks at Steph, a touch sadly. “I’m afraid you have run amok of our trickster. This prank is one that he would delight in.”

 

“Um, I really appreciate this and all,” she breaks in, “but I actually think this has to do with a deal I made with him a couple of years ago.”

 

Baldr and Thor, who had been looking at her sympathetically, suddenly become hard, suspicious people. “Pray explain,” Thor grinds out.

 

“Um, Loki? Well, he called himself Loki, he saved my life in exchange for me protecting his down the line,” Steph shrugs, oh-so-casually twitching her hand for her Batarangs in case she has to fight her way out. Granted, she’ll _lose_ , but at least there will _be_ a fight. “He told me there was a time that I would know I would be needed, and here I am.”

 

Baldr turns to Idris Elba-Heimdall. “Heimdall?”

 

“I do not recall Loki visiting this woman in years past, but he was apt at hiding himself from me when he did not wish to be seen. But she is telling the truth, or at least as she perceives it to be the truth. She was visited by a magpie, which gave her the means to travel directly into Asgardia.”

 

Thor’s look has become a hell of a lot more sympathetic than Baldr’s, but he still looks suspicious. “How can a mortal woman defend a god?”

 

“I’m a warrior, too,” she says with a sigh. It isn’t her favorite term to describe her, but it’s the only one that works. “Though probably not in the context you guys are. Swording is, ah, not my strong suit.”

 

“Thor, are you taking this claim seriously?” Baldr looks incredulous, but she can’t really blame him. “How can Loki hope to be defended by this woman?” He turns to her. “I do not mean to impugn your skills, whatever they might be, but please understand—Loki is, ah, not liked by many here, and many of our warriors would easily overpower you.”

 

Steph stiffens. “What do you mean, he’s not liked by many here?” She turns to Thor. “And his ‘current state?’”

 

“There was a battle,” Thor explains. “Loki died to save this place, but I found him in Paris, in the body of a boy child named Serrure. I restored him to his memory and brought him back here, but he is a child. I also have reason to believe he is not his...former self.”

 

She props her hands on her hips and looks at Baldr. “So, let me get this straight,” her voice has dipped directly into Condescensionville, but she really could care less. “Loki has been reborn as a child, and there are people who would hurt him because of who he used to be.”

 

“That is the short version, yes,” Thor agrees.

 

“And he needs to be defended.”

 

“I do what I can, but frankly, I am not always in Asgardia, and Loki remains here while I am gone,” Thor adds.

 

“Does he have any way to defend himself?”

 

“Not that we have seen thus far,” Baldr tells her, begrudgingly. “He looks to have little-to-no understanding of magic, and he is no warrior.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Baldr looks flummoxed, but if she didn’t know better, she’d say Idris Elba-Heimdall is _amused_.

 

“Me defending Loki is better than none.”

 

Thor looks at her with new respect, but Baldr sputters. “You are a stranger to us, why should you care as to Loki’s fate?”

 

“I told you—he saved my life. I don’t always see things through, but given the circumstances, that was a pretty big deal. I’m not about to let that deal fall through. Besides, what could happen to him without someone to watch over him?” She gives him some time to think that over. “Besides, I have a soft spot for kids. This—child Loki or whatever—can’t be worse than some kids I’ve worked with in the past.”

 

She misses Damian, suddenly. He may be a little ball of repressed anger with too much love for sharp objects, but she still liked him, once he got past the whole I-am-the-son-of-Batman-and-I-am-automatically-better-than-you thing.

 

“You would permit to being in charge of Loki’s welfare?” Thor wants to know.

 

“I could,” she agrees, though really, she’s _obviously_ going to be sharing custody with Thor. Thor clearly loves his little brother—the moment she accepted protecting Loki, he accepted her.

 

“Very well,” Thor beams, clapping her on the shoulder. She tries _really_ hard not to fall down. She mostly succeeds. “I will take you to him!”

 

“Thor, wait—“ Baldr begins, but Thor’s already placing her on his horse, and _oh_ , if she’ll be able to walk once she gets off she’ll consider it a victory.

 

“See you later, Heimdall!” she waves. Idris Elba-Heimdall doesn’t wave back, but he cracks a smile.

 

He definitely cracks a smile.

 

\--

 

Loki is curled up in front of the fireplace, reading a tome that is almost as big as he is, when Thor barges in. “Little brother,” he announces to the world at large. “There is a guest here for you.”

 

He ignores the pleasant twisting of his insides at Thor’s happy greeting, focusing on the latter part of his statement. “A guest? For _me_?” Ikol caws in the corner and bates, but Thor ignores the bird. He steps aside and a blonde woman in jeans and a purple jacket steps inside. She looks over his room, face blank, but she’s—she’s—

 

 _Mortal_.

 

“I remember her,” Ikol croaks. “I saved her life.”

 

“Brother, what is a mortal doing in Asgardia visiting little _me_?” He tries to play it as theatrical as he can, but there’s a waver to the end of his sentence. Thor, the (loveable) idiot, doesn’t notice it, but she does.

 

“Hi Loki. My name is Stephanie Brown, and I’m here to fulfill a debt to you,” she says, kneeling down to put her two bags down. She glances up at Thor—from her position, it is a long way up. “Can you give us a minute?”

 

Thor nods. “Please join us for dinner tonight, I believe Volstagg said you were welcome at his table,” he begs Loki, before leaving and closing the door. Stephanie stands, shoving her hands in her pockets.

 

“I don’t know if you remember much of your old self, or if you remember me, but who you, ah, were, saved me once. In return, he asked that I would protect him when the time is right.” She’s trying to smile, he can tell, but there’s something off about it. “I got confirmation that this is the time.”

 

“I’m doing fine on my own.”

 

“No you’re not,” Ikol protests.

 

“No, you’re not,” Stephanie says gently. “Are you being bullied?” He tries to stand up, to move away from her, but his ankle shrieks with the sudden pressure and he falls again. Before he falls completely, she catches him. “May I look at your ankle?”

 

“It’s nothing,” he lies.

 

She snorts. “Sweetie, my mother’s a _nurse_. It’s not nothing. May I?”

 

He sits down in a chair, kicking off his boot. She rolls up his legging, examining his swollen ankle with a critical eye. “I think it’s sprained,” she tells him, after lightly touching his foot and making it swivel on the joint. “If it was broken, it would need to be splinted, but sprains can hurt a lot worse. Is there something I can wrap it with?”

 

“It’ll heal by tomorrow,” he grumbles.

 

She looks at him, clearly unimpressed. “And until then, it should be wrapped.” She leans back on her haunches. “ _Are_ you being bullied?”

 

“I can’t blame them,” he tells her, handing her a spool of thick ribbon. She rolls her eyes at it, but accepts it nonetheless, asking him to hold his ankle taut while she wraps it. “I did a lot of terrible things as my older self.”

 

“That doesn’t make treating you badly all right,” she says sharply. “You are _not_ your older self.”

 

“Loki is Loki.”

 

She snorts again, finishing up the wrapping. “Is that what you tell yourself to make yourself feel better? You have no need to justify being mistreated.”

 

“It is my due,” he tries to explain.

 

She holds up a hand, rolling his legging back down with the other and handing him his boot. “Are you externalizing your guilt?”

 

He stares at her. “Um.”

 

There’s a small smile on her face—not at him, he thinks, but possibly for herself—before she refocuses on him. “Look, there’s honest remorse, and then there’s guilt. They are two very different things.”

 

“Guilt is easier,” Ikol snipes.

 

They both ignore him. “Now, guilt,” she continues, “can trip you up. Make you depressed or afraid. Believe me—I _know_. But remorse, on the other hand? Remorse means you’re willing to make better choices the next time around. What do you choose, Loki?”

 

He stares at her, this strange mortal who just wrapped his ankle in bright orange ribbon that he gave her just to see if she’d do it. “I’ve never—thought of it that way.”

 

She helps him with his boot. “No one ever puts it in those terms, do they?” she chuckles bitterly, and he suddenly wants to know her story, how she knows the difference between those two things, and how does it work with his previous self (of whom he only has the bad memories, clearly) saving her life. Did she enchant _him_ , as she has just done? Or was there something else to it? “Guilt’s something you feel when you know you’ve made bad decisions and you almost want to be punished for them. Remorse is choosing redemption,” she continues. “Remorse is actively choosing to change. Do you want to change, Loki?”

 

“More than anything else,” he breathes.

 

She grins at him and helps him up. “Step one: promise me you’ll never lie to me, not about the important stuff.”

 

He tilts his head. “Why?”

 

“I’ve been chosen to be your protector, AKA your babysitter,” she tells him, “handpicked by _you_ for the job, just so you know. I need you to tell me the truth, when it matters. I need to know that I can always trust you.”

 

“You can’t _always_ trust me. I am a trickster, after all.”

 

“Fair enough. Trust you enough so that even when I’m getting played, I can go along with it, and for that, I need you to be honest with me.” She holds out her hand, in that way mortals do. “Can you do that?”

 

He places his hand in hers’, and they shake on it. “To the best of my ability, I will be honest with you,” he says earnestly.

 

She grins again. “Now, Thor mentioned something about food and Volstagg?”

 

\--

 

She’s not exactly sure what to make of Loki. Granted, she doesn’t have the bias of him that, like, everyone else does. He’s never harmed her (yet), but externalizing his guilt? (And boy is she glad her psych class last semester was handy). What the hell is going on? What ten, eleven year old thinks like that?

 

 _One that has a lot to regret and fear_ , she reminds herself, thinking about Tim and his guilt. And her.

 

Granted, she became Batgirl because Cass passed along the cowl, but at first, it was a way to deal with that guilt of leaving Gotham, of making everyone who loved her think she was dead (oh yeah, Bruce, _fantastic idea_ ), and later, after Babs accepted her, going out every night became an act of remorse.

 

Looks like she and Loki might just have a lot in common.

 

“Volstagg is called ‘The Voluminous,’” Loki chatters. He’s walking normally on his sprained ankle without wincing, and maybe it’s true, how fast he heals, but she offers her hand anyway. He takes it, swinging their joined hands together. “He is very, very fat. And tall.”

 

“Hey, don’t call him fat,” she chides. “That’s rude.”

 

He peers at her, his green eyes wide with curiosity. “Why? He calls himself fat.”

 

“Maybe Asgardians look at it a little differently, but among mortals, calling someone fat is considered fat-shaming.”

 

“What’s fat-shaming?”

 

“Shaming someone about their weight.”

 

“Oh,” he pauses a moment. “And mortals aren’t okay with it?”

 

“The worthwhile ones aren’t.”

 

“So then why do mortals focus so much on dieting?”

 

She shrugs a shoulder. “Because guilt can be marketable and make money?”

 

There’s that spark of understanding. “So, mortals shame other mortals because of their weight in order to make money?”

 

“Magazines and dieting agencies,” she tacks on hastily. “Individuals usually are just rude.”

 

“So I should not call Volstagg fat,” he decides. “Instead, I shall just refer to him as Volstagg the Voluminous.”

 

She doesn’t say anything, because that’s when Loki leads her into the dining hall, and holy hell, it is _huge_. Does everything in Asgardia come in Extra-Large?

 

They’ve entered through a side-door, and Loki’s hand tightens on hers as he leads her through the people to where an admittedly larger-than-usual-for-Asgardia man is sitting, wearing a pink tunic and a helmet.

 

She likes him already.

 

Loki maneuvers them both so that he’s sandwiched between the two of them, leaning against her as he hides—and yeah, that’s hiding behavior, she’s seen enough of it from Tim, Damian, and Cass to recognize hiding behavior when she sees it—behind Volstagg’s girth as he helps himself to the roast on the table in front of him.

 

At least Asgardia is past _trenchers_ , but still, how is this possibly sanitary?

 

Loki passes her a plate of roasted—something with vegetables in gravy on the side before digging into his own platter. Volstagg is talking about some battle or another (honestly, it’s so loud in here she only catches every third word and she’s sitting _next to the guy_ ) but he clearly recognizes Loki is there, because he rubs the kid’s head and nods to her.

 

Across the table from him is a gorgeous woman in red and silver, wearing a winged helmet that Stephanie wants immediately, thankyouverymuch, and is eating as eagerly as everybody else.

 

Steph takes a bite of the roast, and it’s heavy. It also doesn’t taste like anything she’s ever had before, so it’s probably not pork or beef.  Volstagg must have noticed her confusion, because he leans over and shouts, “It’s boar!”

 

“Okay,” she agrees, looking down at her plate and then smiling back up again, because really, _how do you respond to that_?

 

The gorgeous woman across the table notices her, and then she sees Loki, leaning against Steph and eating quickly but contentedly, and her mouth twists. “I am the Lady Sif, and this is Volstagg,” Lady Sif tells her, and okay, the sound hasn’t decreased but Steph can hear her perfectly.

 

“Stephanie Brown,” she answers.

 

“She’s my protector,” Loki pipes up. Volstagg chuckles, but Sif’s eyebrows come together with a practically audible snap.

 

“A mortal as Loki’s protector?”

 

“Surely I’ve done stranger things,” Loki says defiantly. “And I chose her.”

 

“Are you a warrior, Stephanie?” Sif says it politely, but there’s no doubt it’s a demand.

 

“Yes, where I come from,” she replies, but there’s something in Sif that reminds her of Jordanna, that subtle twist of disdain. Well, Jordanna wasn’t all that subtle, but Sif is. Maybe. “I am one of my city’s guardians.”

 

“Ah, like an Avenger, then,” Sif nods, and just like that, her tension is gone. “I believe the Spider-Man defends his City of New York with many oaths. What city do you defend?”

 

“Gotham. I was Batgirl, and before that, I was Robin and the Spoiler.”

 

Sif looks politely nonplussed. “The Spoiler? That is an unusual name.”

 

Steph shrugs. “My father was a villain called the Cluemaster. I took the name Spoiler to mean that I, ah, _spoiled_ his plans.”

 

“What clever wordplay!” Sif beams. “And Robin? And this—Girl-of-Bats?”

 

“Batman, one of my mentors, had this whole line of Robins. The first Robin, he named himself, but it became a legacy title,” she’s at a loss for an example, because these people clearly don’t have the same cape-and-cowl community she does.

 

“Like the title of Captain America, and how Steve Rogers was him, and then he passed it on to his partner, Bucky Barnes?” Loki asks, his eyes mischievous. Okay, she’s starting to understand why this kid’s a troublemaker, but he’s just helped her, so she nudges him slightly with his elbow.

 

“Like that, yeah. I was the fourth Robin—“

 

“Surely your Man-of-Bats could hold onto a protégé,” Sif protests.

 

“Um,” the paraphrased history of the Batfamily wouldn’t exactly work here. “The second Robin died, on, um, the battlefield against one of Batman’s greatest enemies. The third Robin chose to step down, and in return, Batman chose me,” well, kind of, “to take up the mantle. After I was done with Robin,” and causing a city-wide gang in an attempt to prove myself, and nearly dying, and then going to Africa for a year, and then coming back in time for the first Batman to die, “I was given the mantle of Batgirl, which was another legacy title. My mentor, Oracle, was the first Batgirl, and the second Batgirl, who became Black Bat, was my best friend.”

 

“Why bats?” Loki inquires, sitting up after devouring his food.

 

“’Criminals are a cowardly, superstitious lot,’” Steph replies in her Bat-Voice. “Batman tries to invoke fear as his tool as much as possible.” Unless it comes to the Scarecrow, but hey, she beat his ass _while_ drugged, so score one for the home team.

 

“That makes sense,” Sif considers. “So you have had...three identities?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“So you are indeed a warrior,” Sif says with satisfaction. “Would you do me the honor of sparring with me?”

 

“Um, okay, but you should know I don’t exactly have a formal style,” Steph says cautiously. “I mostly hit and...stuff.”

 

“I’m sure we have much to teach each other,” Sif says happily, and she starts back on her plate of roast boar.

 

Steph looks down at her plate and feels really ill. “I’m sure we do.”

 

\--

 

He has always loved a good story. Always. So when Stephanie (she insists he call her Steph, but he much prefers the melodious _Stephanie_. It rolls off the tongue so agreeably) gives the (obviously short version) story of her origins, he notices many things.

 

For example, she doesn’t mind him leaning against her. Clearly, she’s accustomed to touch. Given that she offered her hand first, she is comfortable with it, but since she was avoiding the person on her other side—Loki cannot remember who it is—she is only comfortable with touch if she engages in it first.

 

For another, she’s uncomfortable with relating her origins. He doubts it is because of Sif—telling stories is integral to Asgardian culture—but because of her discomfort with her past. He can understand.

 

There _is_ more to her story, he is certain. Ikol never comes to dinner, but when he re-enters his tower, he asks Ikol directly about her. “You saved her life. Why?”

 

“She created chaos. I wanted to reward her.”

 

“But you saved her life, Old-Me. That’s not what you usually do.”

 

“I knew I would need her.”

 

Talking to Ikol always makes his head hurt.

 

“You could always ask her yourself,” Ikol suggest, bating.

 

As if on cue, the door creaks open and Stephanie’s head peeks through. She hadn’t eaten very much of dinner—it _was_ rich food by mortal standards—but unlike others, she hadn’t spilled on her dark purple jacket. He had to give her mental awards for that. “Loki? You disappeared kinda quick after dinner.”

 

“Is the function of my ‘protector’ knowing where I am at all hours?” he sighs, but he’s not really irritated. He likes her.

 

She arches one of her eyebrows. He wishes he could do that. “In a word? Yes. Besides, I wanted to check your ankle. You were walking on it okay tonight, but I just want to check the swelling. Besides, the badass blonde named Freyr or whatever? They gave me something to put on it to help the pain.”

 

“A poultice?”

 

“Yeah, I think that’s what they said.”

 

“Oh very well,” he allows, sitting down and taking off his boot. Stephanie kneels at his feet, pulling up the legging and unwrapping the ribbon. The swelling’s only gone down a bit and the color’s better, but it’s not healed yet. From her jacket pocket, she removes the poultice and places it against the worst of the swelling, flinching when he hisses, but wrapping it up. Once that’s done, she stands, dusting off her hands. “Is there anything you need, so you won’t move?”

 

Ikol caws from his perch. “I promise not to move if—“

 

She looks down on him, her hands on her hips. “Yes?”

 

“If you tell me the full version of your origins. There was a lot you left out.”

 

Her eyes widen. They’re blue, but like Thor’s blue—bright, hopeful. Not like Sif’s blue, which is dark and deep. “It’s a really long story.”

 

He looks pointedly at his feet, one encased in black legging and boot, the other wrapped in shrieking orange ribbon. “It isn’t as though I have places to be.”

 

Stephanie sighs, and she sits down cross-legged on the floor (he’ll need to get more chairs), and haltingly, she begins.

 

\--

 

Asgardia at night is quiet.

 

Loki’s asleep in that tower of his (it’s weird, okay, that he lives in a place that separates him from others. It works both ways—from what it looks like, only Thor visits him, well, now she does too, but it’s lonely), but she’s not tired (is it possible to get dimensional jet-lag?), so she decides to visit Idris Elba-Heimdall.

 

He’s staring out into the night, and it’s cold. She huddles into her jacket, eyeing him. “Don’t you get cold?”

 

“Not truly,” he answers. “My armor is heated.”

 

“ _Awesome_.”

 

“What purpose brings you here?”

 

“You mean, here-here, like why am I bothering you? Or here, like, existentially?”

 

Idris Elba-Heimdall’s mouth twitches. “Both.”

 

“I’m bored, and I’m not tired,” she confesses, curling her hands into loose fists in her jacket pockets, and loosening them again. “Existentially speaking? I have no idea. I’m just here to fulfill a debt.”

 

“It is not his nature to be honest,” Idris Elba-Heimdall says. “If he is able to keep his promise to you—I will know he is capable of change.”

 

“Why does everyone hate him, anyway?”

 

“He has caused much damage to Asgard over the years.” Idris Elba-Heimdall eyes her. “In the library, there is a collection of everything he has done.”

 

“Still, he’s been given a second chance.”

 

“He has had many.”

 

Steph stares out over Oklahoma.

 

“Will your family miss you?”

 

She jumps. “No. There was some kind of cataclysm. My mother’s forgotten me.”

 

“I am sorry,” Idris Elba-Heimdall says softly.

 

She smiles at him. “Thank you.”

 

“I do welcome company at times,” Idris Elba-Heimdall tells her as she shuffles her feet, getting ready to head back. “If there are other nights you cannot sleep—“

 

She nods. “I know where to find you.”

 

“Good night.”

 

“Good night.”

 

She’s not entirely sure what to do with herself, and added to that, her heart aches, like someone’s stuck their thumb in her heart and _pressed_ (thank you, Tim, for that delightful mental image). It’s probably thanks to both the whole-Mom-forgetting-who-she-is thing and the recounting the-sordid-tale-of-my-youth thing, but while she hasn’t struggled with depression, not like how Tim has, she still has Bad Days.

 

According to Babs, all heroes have Bad Days.

 

Being busy—looking after someone—is a distraction, but now that she’s not, the fullness of the Bad Day swims forward to smack her in the face. She misses Cass with a physical, solid ache. She misses Babs. She misses Damian. She even misses Dick, and the way he’d smile at her when Bruce was off on a power trip in the Cave and she was waiting for him to get to the freaking point.

 

It’s not easy being Stephanie Brown, even on a good day.

 

Hell, she doesn’t even know where she’ll _sleep_. Loki has that mat in his room, but it didn’t look like his tower had more than one room and it is _his_ space. Steph can respect that need.

 

She climbs back up the stairs to the tower, sitting on the steps outside the door. She starts to compose a letter to Cass in her head, determining to obtain a notebook from Broxton tomorrow.

 

Pretending to write to Cass is better than forgetting her altogether.

 

\--

 

When Loki opens the door in the morning, he finds Stephanie asleep on the stairs. He had firmly placed her in the ‘woman’ category, by virtue of age (and also, she’s agreed to take of him), but now that she’s asleep, he can see—

 

Well, she’s not _young_. Not like him (he thinks he’s 10. He could be wrong), but in comparison to how old Thor looks in Midgardian ages (late twenties at _least_ ), she’s young.

 

“Stephanie?” he touches her lightly. Thor and Sif do not awaken well when woken so; if she is a warrior, as she claims, it would be a similar scenario for her. She jumps, her eyes flashing open and her chest heaving with...panic? Surprise?

 

She looks at him, and for a moment, he can tell she doesn’t recognize him, but then she blinks and memory reminds her. “Loki?”

 

“There are other rooms in this tower,” he tells her. “Mine is not the only one.”

 

She rubs her face. “I—didn’t know.”

 

“Would you like to get breakfast?” he offers. “There is a diner in Broxton that makes a delightful eggs and bacon combo.”

 

“Do they have waffles?”

 

“What are waffles?”

 

“Golden fried goodness,” she says dreamily. “Let me change my clothes, mmkay? And is there some kind of shower?”

 

“We have baths,” he says helpfully. “Though that may take longer than you intend.”

 

She blinks at him. “Um, yes.”

 

“There is a pitcher of water and a basin. You can wash your hands and your face there,” he directs her towards the privy. She disappears inside and Ikol caws at him from the window perch.

 

“She is a nuisance.”

 

“No, she’s not.”

 

“She will slow you down.”

 

Loki chooses not to respond as Stephanie reappears, blonde hair combed into a fresh braid, the light from yesterday back in her eyes. She’s dusting off her purple jacket, and she breathes in deeply when she sees him. “So, Loki, I think you promised me breakfast, with opportunity for waffles. I have an errand to run in Broxton, but is there anything in particular what you would like to do today?”

 

Suddenly, he realizes what it means, to have a babysitter. His days are no longer his own, to wander the land surrounding Broxton or ramble all over Asgardia on his own. Now he will be looked after.

 

He begins to understand what Ikol meant by ‘nuisance.’

 

“I do not have a set schedule,” he tells her as they start down the stairway. “I like to wander.”

 

“Asgardia seems huge to me, and I grew up a city girl. Do you mind showing me your favorite spots?”

 

As suggestions go, it is blatant (he can work on her subtlety), but he appreciates it nonetheless. “No, I do not mind. Though I would like to bid Thor farewell before he goes today. He is going to New York, to work with his Avengers or some such.”

 

“Of course. I get that,” Stephanie’s face is wistful as she opens the door for him. “I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to my best friend before she left for eventually Hong Kong.”

 

“Is this Cass?” The name had peppered her narrative last night, and whenever she spoke it, a soft, wistful look appeared on her face, even when she was regaling about her lies to Cass.

 

Stephanie’s smile trembles before firming. “Of course. That was the last time I saw her, before I came here.”

 

“This will _not_ be the last time I see Thor,” it’s sharper than he intends, but the idea of losing his big brother is anathema.

 

“Of course it’s not,” Stephanie blinks at him. “But I’m just saying—grab your moments so they can be treasured later.”

 

They pass by Heimdall, who nods to Stephanie and glares at Loki—just to be contrary—before he says, “I apologize. That was sharper than necessary.”

 

Her hand lifts for a moment, as though she’s going to ruffle his hair, but he watches her realize she _can’t_ ruffle his hair and she shakes her head and puts her hand down. “No big, kid. I get it.”

 

“Do you have siblings?”

 

“Not by blood, but kind of.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘kind of?’”

 

“Well, by this point, I’d consider Tim—douchey ex who was originally a sweet guy—family. We have all of the history that’s good and bad that goes with family, but we are firmly platonic, or were, by the end, so designation: family he is. Dick and I never had a lot of contact in any way, but he looked out for me like an overprotective big brother, and I have it on good authority that Babs considered me a younger sister, or at the very least, older daughter.” She shrugs as they walk into Broxton, Loki making a beeline for Bill’s.

 

“The mortal concept of what constitutes family or not is still confusing to me,” he remarks as he opens the door for her. She smiles at him in thanks as they slide into the nearest booth, picking up the menus that are left to the sides of the table.

 

“Does the whole ‘chosen family’ thing not exist on Asgardia?”

 

“It is not unusual for fostering,” he admits, perusing the menu. “But family bonds without blood are unusual. I have been given to understand that when Odin All-Father took in my younger older self, it caused quite a stir. Fosterlings are always aware that their foster-family may treat them like family, but they are never a part of that family.”

 

Stephanie reaches out a hand and squeezes his quickly, before letting it go and turning the page on her menu. “Well, let me put it this way, kid: my blood family, with the exception of my mom, who grew in awesomeness as I grew older, sucked. I liked my chosen family a hell of a lot more, even if they didn’t like _me_ at the beginning. That’s how family is: at some point or another, nobody’s going to like each other much but you’re still willing to fight for each other at the end of the day.”

 

“How can I help you?” asks Stereotypical World Weary Waitress™.

 

Stephanie grins at her (it is beginning to dawn on him, how easily she smiles. From he understands about her—condensed—life story, she has not had an easy time of it, but she still smiles. It confuses him) and reels off an order for waffles and orange juice. He declares (yes, he _declares_ ) what he would like, and Stereotypical World Weary Waitress™ yawns and walks back to the kitchen.

 

“What is the other errand you need to attend to?”

 

“I need a notebook,” Stephanie says easily, hiding a yawn behind her hand. “I’m going to write letters to Cass, but I need a notebook and some pens.”

 

He isn’t going to ask why she’s going to write letters to someone who has appeared, for all intents and purposes, to disappear.

 

Their food arrives very quickly (the good people of Broxton have learned to serve Asgardians as quickly as possible in the hopes of saving their dishware), and Stephanie sighs in delight and contentment upon receiving her waffles. He stares as she carefully covers them with syrup, and then she groans as the syrup overflows from the tiny squares onto the rest of it. “See that, Loki? Chaos. Once chaos gets into it, chaos will never leave.”

 

“That is the nature of chaos,” he deadpans, starting in on his eggs. The cook here—Bill, he thinks, Bill—uses an interesting combination of spices in frying the eggs, one that does not occur in Asgardia.

 

She snorts. “Here I am, trying to make an existential point, and you don’t care.”

 

Her tone is teasing. He responds in kind. “Using golden fried dough?”

 

“Waffles aren’t _just_ golden fried dough,” Stephanie insists, her eyes merry. “They’re happiness and wishes come true and comfort food all in one.”

 

He looks at her. “I see.”

 

“You’re welcome to have a bite, if you wish,” she offers. “I mean, since you’ve clearly never had waffles before.”

 

He hesitates for a moment, but then he nods. She cuts off a bit and spears it with her fork, offering it to him. He takes it, biting the waffle off the fork prongs.

 

 _Without_ approval from his brain, his eyes widen and he hums in appreciation. They’re heavy—no doubt thanks to the batter—but heavy with sweetness but not to the point of drowning in it.

 

She’s grinning, almost evilly really, at his reaction. Without acknowledging her, he turns to call, “Can I please get an order of what the blonde is having?”

 

\--

 

They’re in the process of shopping at the limited supermarket for a notebook and pens when Loki’s head picks up. He tilts it, just slightly, but for someone trained by Bat-people, it’s as blatant as you can get.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I think you had best pay for that. We need to go,” his voice is as tense as she’s ever heard, he of the normally-theatrical airs.

 

She tucks the purple notebook and accompanying pens close to her chest and gets to the register quickly, smiling at the cashier as the woman rings her up. Loki’s shifting from foot to foot.

 

Once they’re out, he grabs her hand and they run all the way back to Asgardia. Once they’re back, she can tell that something’s wrong. Idris Elba-Heimdall (that’s really a mouthful, even in her head) was never slouching, but he’s definitely at attention now, and his eyes are full of stars. Sif is in conference with Baldr, discussing something in a low voice. When she sees the two of them, she breaks off to come over, hissing, “Where have you _been_?”

 

This appears to be directed at Loki, but Steph steps in front of him. Whether he realizes it or not, he clutches the back of her jacket as she says icily, “We were getting breakfast. What’s going on?”

 

“The Serpent has awoken,” Sif looks _frazzled_ , or at least as frazzled as a goddess can get. “Baldr is speaking of awakening the All-Father.”

 

“Is that a good idea?” Loki squeaks from behind her.

 

“Afraid he’ll throw you out of Asgardia?” And okay, Sif, that didn’t need to be that nasty.

 

“Yes,” Loki says quietly.

 

Steph squeezes his shoulder and looks at Sif. “That is not happening. What are the plans?”

 

“There’s only one person that can possibly defeat the Serpent—“

 

“Let me guess, it’s Thor.”

 

Sif nods. “We have been unable to contact him since we became aware that the Serpent has awoken. Heimdall is attempting to do so.”

 

“So that explains why his face is all glowy?”

 

Sif stares. “I beg your pardon?”

 

Steph sighs. “Never mind. What are your contingency plans?”

 

Sif cocks her head. Steph throws her hands up in the air. “What are you all going to do about the Serpent?”

 

“Only Thor—“

 

“Look, that’s prophecy, right?”

 

“It is.”

 

“Well, _fuck_ prophecy,” Steph snaps. “I am asking, what is Asgardia going to do?”

 

“The world is in shambles as the Serpent awakens his warriors—“

 

“Can Asgardia fight his warriors?”

 

Sif’s eyes get distant. “Yes. Yes, we can.” She places a hand on Steph’s shoulder. “Thank you, daughter of Brown.” She turns, calling out, “Lord Baldr--!”

 

Loki tugs on her jacket. She looks down at him. “I do not believe Thor can win.”

 

“What do you mean?” She crouches to look at him. His green eyes are huge in his paper-white face.

 

“The Serpent is made of fear. He feeds on it. He causes it, thus giving him more power. Prophecy states that Thor will defeat the Serpent, take nine steps, and fall. How can Thor win against a creature who feeds on fear?”

 

She looks at him for a long moment. “I have a few ideas.” She stands upright, offers him her hand. “But I do need access to news. Is there anything on Asgardia that is connected to the outside world?”

 

“My StarkPhone,” he tells her, taking her hand and running towards his tower. They take the stairs two at a time, until Loki unearths the phone from by his mat (and she is seriously going to talk to Volstagg about getting this kid a proper bed), and powers it up.

 

“Does this have CNN?”

 

“Yes,” he says breathlessly, bringing up the site. She takes it from him, trying to recognize something about this.

 

It works with enough similarity to an iPhone that she’s soon scanning through the articles and pictures. Wouldn’t you know it, Anderson Cooper exists on this dimension too, and she begins to have an understanding of what exactly is going on. Just to double-check, she checks with BBC and NPR, and they’re all saying the same things.

 

The world _is_ in shambles.

 

The heroes—names she doesn’t recognize, but the pictures are clear enough—are getting beaten at every quarter, in as public a way as possible. If there’s anything that causes widespread fear, _that’s it_. Fire, flooding, power outages, random earthquakes across the Pacific Rim, and even freak hurricanes (how exactly do freak hurricanes occur, thankyouverymuch?) across the Eastern Seaboard.

 

If you were trying to cause widespread panic about the oncoming apocalypse, _this would be it_.

 

She doesn’t have to work on containment—that’s apparently what the ‘Avengers’ (they seem like this dimension’s Justice League, only with much less aliens and more artificially powered humans) are doing.

 

What can Asgardia do?

 

What _can_ be done?

 

The floor shakes suddenly, and she clutches for Loki. She may not have been in Gotham for the whole No-Man’s-Land debacle, but she was certainly there during the earthquake that started it all, and she has had a fear of them since.

 

Fear. It all ties back to fear.

 

“You okay kid?” she has to ask, when Loki’s clutching her arm and staring out the window.

 

“They have awoken Odin,” he breathes.

 

“What does that mean?”

 

He throws his arms around her and buries his face in her stomach. “It means we have no hope, if we are to rely on _him_ ,” he says, his voice muffled and vibrating through her clothes.

 

She hugs him back, but then gently pulls him away and crouches to look at him. His eyes are welling with tears; she brushes one aside. “Hey, listen to me.” His eyes slide away and he scrubs at his eyes angrily. She holds his wrists, definitely gently, but definitely firmly. “Listen to me. Loki—there is always hope.”

 

“No—Thor will die and it will be for _nothing_! The Serpent fears nothing—why should he fear Thor? His story is well-known,” he stops.

 

“I’m guessing you just thought of something.”

 

“There is a chance. But I need Hela, and, and—“ His eyes are darting around the tower room.

 

She stands up. “What can I do to help?”

 

He bites his lip. “I need you to distract those who come looking for me. Odin’s bound to hear I’m back, and he will not be happy. Just tell him that you’re here to pay a blood-debt to me; he will not hurt you.”

 

“But he might hurt you.”

 

“Without Thor here, he will. You’re mortal, I won’t ask you to fight Odin All-Father in my name. He will destroy you, and I—I will not let you die in my name. But I need to get a few things together. Once you’ve sent everyone in a thousand directions, meet me at the World Tree.”

 

“Who exactly will come looking for you?”

 

“Sif, Volstagg, Baldr—everyone. Odin despises me. Well. He despises everyone. Even his own son. But he will kill me if he finds me.” Loki begins to pace. “Volstagg might defend me, but he’s more likely to hide me and ‘forget’ where he sent me.  Sif might defend me out of her obligation to Thor, but she won’t mean it.”

 

She has to stop herself from reaching out and hugging him. No ten-year-old should be thinking like this.

 

“Fine.”

 

“What?”

 

“Get out of here. Go get what you need to get. I’ll take care of this. If I see Thor—“

 

“Let him deal with Odin. I can’t-can’t deal with him right now.”

 

“Fair enough. Be quick, okay?”

 

“As lightning,” he surprises her by grabbing her shoulder and leaning upwards to kiss her cheek, before disappearing out of the tower.

 

Not a moment too soon, because she’s barely followed him out and seen him disappear before Sif grabs her arm, startling the hell out of her. “Stephanie, where is Loki?”

 

“I have no idea,” she says truthfully. “What’s going on?”

 

“King Baldr awoke Odin All-Father. The Serpent is his brother, and—if there’s anyone who could hope to defeat him before he reaches full-strength, it is the All-Father. He has called Thor home, but he wants Loki—“

 

“Out of Asgardia, through the most violent means possible?”

 

Sif nods frantically, reaching up to settle her helmet. “The boy should hide until Thor gets here. There are enough who gladly kill him to gain favor with the All-Father.”

 

“I have no idea where Loki is,” Steph repeats. “Is there anything I can do to help with the Serpent situation?”

 

Sif stares. “You are a mortal, and you are offering to assist with Asgardian problems?”

 

“Aren’t the Avengers?”

 

“But the Avengers are different. They have sworn to protect Midgard. All-Father protect us, you but arrived _yesterday_.”

 

“Let’s just say this isn’t my first time at an apocalyptic rodeo, or even my third,” she tries to smile at Sif. “Last one I remember, weird zombie creatures were attacking everyone in the hopes of draining them of their emotions and feeding off of it. The Serpent’s not so different, really. Only he feeds off fear, right?”

 

Sif nods frantically, adjusting her helmet again.

 

“So, what would decrease that—”

 

Shouting erupts from the main square. Sif looks troubled. “Thor has returned. You must come.” She grabs Steph’s wrist and physically tows her (and yeah, she’s getting pretty sick of this. Even Loki’s gotten in on it; she can walk for herself, thank you) to the main square, where Odin ( _okay_ , if she’d ever thought about capital-G God, she kinda pictured him to look like Odin) is bellowing about his plans to—

 

_Remove Asgardia to space?_

And then destroy the earth?! WAT.

 

Before she really realizes it, she’s removing her hand from Sif’s hold and striding forward to Odin-God. “Hey? NOT A GOOD IDEA.”

 

He’s thrown by her interruption, if his gaping and no-bellowing-speeching is to be believed. “Do you _know_ how many people live on that planet? _Billions._ How many Asgardians?” She turns on her heel to survey everyone there, putting her hands on her hips. Mimicking her, the audience looks around at each other. Hundreds, maybe a couple thousand if they were _really_ generous, but no more Asgardians than that. “And you think you can make that kind of decision with such a population disparity?”

 

“The Serpent will destroy all the realms if left unchecked!” Odin gets his second wind.

 

“So you’d rather destroy one in an attempt to destroy it? _Brilliant_ plan. Except what does the Serpent feed on, again? Oh yeah, FEAR, you butt. What would cause more fear than the seeming-apocalypse? FIERY DEATH RAINING DOWN FROM THE HEAVENS. It won’t be quick, thus creating MORE fear. HOW WILL THIS DESTROY THE SERPENT?!” she’s yelling. She doesn’t often yell.

 

Worse, she’s yelling in the _outside_ voice. Unfortunately, her version of the Bat-Voice was never that intimidating, not like Bruce’s raspy growl or Dick’s bass-y snarl.

 

“You are a mortal, and you do not understand such matters,” Odin dismisses. “What is a mortal doing on Asgardia in the first place?”

 

She folds her arms across her chest. “Paying a blood-debt, something I was told you’d understand.”

 

“The only way a blood-debt can be incurred is if someone here saved your life or if you bargained to save the life of another. To whom are you indebted?”

 

She glances at Thor, who nods at her and winks in encouragement. He looks approving, so she does what she does best, meaning she doesn’t quit while she’s ahead. “Loki.”

 

Odin hisses. “He is _alive_?”

 

“He is, All-Father,” Thor says suddenly, appearing at her side. He doesn’t look happy with Odin, (but if Loki is to be believed, _no one_ is ever happy with Odin) and Thor standing next to her means a lot. “And this woman is his protector.”

 

Odin looks down his nose at her. “Loki requiring a _mortal woman_ to protect him? How he has fallen.”

 

She feels her fists balling up, but Thor gets there first. “This ‘mortal woman,’ as you so casually dismiss her, has the courage to tell you that you are wrong, which is far and away more courage than most here possess. Surely she alone is proof that we should not give up on Midgard and the human race.”

 

“Where is Loki?”

 

Steph’s chin juts out. If Cass or Babs, or hell, even Dick and Tim, had been there to see it, they would have recognized it as her ‘Challenge Accepted’ stance. “Not here.”

 

“You will tell me where he is,” Odin growls at her.

 

But she’s been growled at by Bruce, and Bruce is hella more intimidating than this guy. She shakes her head. “I have no idea where he is.”

 

Odin looks like he’s a second away from shaking her, but Thor puts a hand on her shoulder and shoves her back a couple of steps, moving between her and Odin. “You know if she plays you false, All-Father. Let her be, and do not destroy Midgard. It will not defeat the Serpent, and we must defeat him.”

 

“You cannot destroy Fear,” Odin snaps.

 

“Um, yes you can,” Steph protests. Both of them stop to look at her. “Fear can always be defeated.”

 

“Enlighten us,” Odin didn’t really seem like the type of guy to be able to drawl.

 

“Hope.”

 

Odin scoffs. “Hope is a child’s dream.”

 

She scowls at him. “Right now, the _mortals_ you clearly think so little of are frightened out of their minds and getting worse. They’re seeing their heroes beaten and retreating. They’re watching people die. All of that fear is going directly to the source. You have to cut off that source.”

 

“She speaks truth, All-Father.”

 

“How do you propose, then, to spread ‘hope’ among mortals?” She’s being snarled at by Odin. She can deal with this. She totally can.

 

“Have your people fight beside them.”

 

“You would ask me to risk my own people—“

 

“They’re going to be at risk anyway!” she yells, throwing her hands up in the air. “Either here, or in space, you butt! But your people are able to take a hit a lot better than the heroes down there on Earth. It’s like—“ scrambling for an example, “when the Elves arrived at Helm’s Deep, okay? Théoden King was all, oh god we’re gonna die, we’re outmatched, and then the Elves arrived and everyone fought better and they _won_ , because they had _hope_! Scared people die quicker! This is a _fact_!”

 

When Odin crosses his arms and looks past her to Broxton, she knows she’s lost. He won’t listen, and the Earth is doomed.

 

Thor goes to his knees. “Please, All-Father, do not do this. This is folly of the highest caliber.”

 

“You still disobey me?” Odin growls, refocusing. “Very well. Guards, lock up Thor Odinson for treason. I will deal with him later.”

 

“You can’t do this,” Steph protests, but one of the guards—she doesn’t know who he is—shields her from Odin’s gaze.

 

“Get out of here,” he says from the corner of his mouth. “He’s angry enough to risk courting a feud by harming you.”

 

“Listen to him,” Thor agrees, anger at Odin twisting his face unpleasantly. “Get Loki. Do what you can to help.”

 

“But you—“

 

“I have no doubt I will not be incarcerated for long. _Go_ , daughter of Brown. You do not have time.”

 

As if to echo his words, Asgardia lurches and takes off for the sky. Cursing everyone, she runs off, looking for the World Tree.

 

She gets there, and slumps to the ground, breathing in deeply. She’s got great endurance—anyone trained by Babs would—but she’s been running more than usual, and she’s angry.

 

“Stephanie?”

 

Damnit, she has _got_ to get that kid to call her Steph. “You got everything you need?” Then she looks at him. “Are you riding a _direwolf?_ ”

 

“He is Hel-Wolf,” Loki says proudly.

 

“Strip the marrow from your bones,” Hel-Wolf agrees.

 

“All right, kid, where are we going?” she asks, letting him help her hoist herself behind him on the direwolf/Hel-Wolf _whatever_.

 

“The clue is in the name. We’re going to Hel.”

 

\--

 

They stop at the Gates of Hel. Stephanie’s face is grey as she wipes away beads of perspiration; Loki remembers that she is mortal. Mortals feel sicker, the closer to Hel they get. “Perhaps I should send you back to Asgardia with Hel-Wolf.”

 

She straightens. “No. You’re literally about to walk into the lion’s den. I’m not letting you do that alone.”

 

“You’ll be of no use to us if you’re too weak to stand,” Ikol observes, clenching his talons in Loki’s shoulder.

 

“Ikol is correct—mortals do not do well when they venture too close to Hel while still alive.” Before Stephanie can respond, he sighs and waves a hand. “But you may remain. I need to look at the grand picture of Hel.”

 

She sits down against a rock, placing her head between her knees and breathing deeply. He dimly recalls that mortals can do that as treatment for a panic attack or a sudden onset of dizziness, but he blocks that out, speaking aloud with Ikol.

 

In the middle of his ramblings, Stephanie interrupts, “These Dis-people—who are they? Why are you afraid to say their name?”

 

Ikol fluffs his feathers, and Loki hastily cuts off the bird. “They are the Soul-Eaters. They will wreak your soul in torment if they can catch you. Thus, we do not speak their name.”

 

“Like the Kindly Ones in Greek mythology?” She tilts her head back to lay against the rock with her eyes closed. He is sincerely worried for her. Her pallor is less grey now and more chalk-white, and her hair is darkening with sweat. “Tim got me into the _Percy Jackson_ books two years ago.”

 

“Something like that,” he confirms, turning back to his diagram. “I think I know how this can be manipulated. But, Stephanie? Will you last?”

 

She struggles to her feet. “I managed to get halfway across Gotham while bleeding out from a bullet wound in my shoulder after being tortured for three days. I can go with you to Hel.”

 

Loki whistles for Hel-Wolf, and like a gentleman, allows her to mount first.

 

Strangely, the closer they get to Hela’s domain, her color begins to return but her skin, alarmingly warm before, starts to cool. They are not going to Niffleheimr, and there is no reason for her skin to cool so quickly.

 

They stop in front of a huge dog. Loki slides off first, gallantly offering his hand to Stephanie. She takes it, and clutches the rocks to help her stand. “You are--?”

 

“Garm, little one.”

 

“Garm, yes. A wolf of Hel?” He feels himself smirk. “There are, unfortunately, a large number of those. Hel-Wolf, busy canine time!”

 

Stephanie’s eyes widen as Hel-Wolf jumps forward, latching his fangs into Garm’s throat. “I’ll be back soon,” he hollers to his mount. He offers his arm to Stephanie, and she takes it, breathing harshly.

 

“Was that really necessary?”

 

“I did not wish to be torn apart by a huge beast,” he peers up at her. Her skin is alarmingly cool, and she’s shivering in her jacket.

 

“Don’t,” she warns when it’s clear he’s about to offer to send her back to Asgardia with the limited magic he possesses. “I’m not leaving you unprotected.”

 

“Indeed, you can protect so well in that state,” Ikol remarks.

 

She ignores him, fixing her gaze on the palace ahead of them. “Hela is the Goddess of the Dead, yeah?”

 

“She rules those who did not die with the valor of battle,” he confirms.

 

“This doesn’t exactly seem fair,” she muses as they make their way up the path. “There are plenty of people who die in their beds who have been courageous during their lifetimes. War veterans, for example. Social activists. There are all sorts of battle.”

 

“You would likely have made it to Valhalla,” he tries to reassure her.

 

Her face shutters. “I sincerely doubt it. Everything I did before becoming Batgirl was born out of a selfish desire to prove myself to the authority around me.”

 

“And after?”

 

“Batgirl was about remorse, about being better, about staying when before I would have run. I had courage, yeah, but it was the bravery-stupidity kind.”

 

He pats her arm. “ _I_ think you’re brave.”

 

She blinks at him.

 

He beams. “Who else would have stood up to Odin All-Father in defense of Midgard?”

 

She groans and covers her face with her free hand. “I still can’t believe I did that.”

 

“I can,” he tells her earnestly. “Thor stands up to the All-Father. It is what he does. But you—you have more to lose, and you did it anyway. _That’s_ courage in my book.”

 

She smiles at him, but then Ikol hisses for quiet.

 

“Tyr is in the library,” Ikol says quietly. “This is your opportunity.”

 

Loki looks at Stephanie. “May I leave you for a moment? I need to parley with Hela’s general.”

 

She lets go of him to hold onto a post, gesturing that he should go on. Before he climbs through the window, he looks back at her, but she’s gone. He rears back, scanning for her, but he can’t worry about her, and he pushes himself through the windowsill. “Tyr? I come in- _hlp_.”

 

He stares at the glowing tip of the blade, nearly going cross-eyed. He tries to move backwards, get the tip away from the soft skin of his throat, but there’s nowhere to move. “I have no interest in what you have to say,” Tyr rumbles. “In fact, it would likely be best if no one ever heard anything you had to say ever again.”

 

“But I come in parley!” he chokes out.

 

“Not good enough—”

 

Suddenly, there’s a purple-jacketed arm wrapped around Tyr’s midsection and a strange looking blade at the dead warrior’s throat. “I’d step back if I were you,” Stephanie snarls, and her voice is truly menacing. Despite himself, Loki feels a shiver go down his spine. “Unless you want to be a mute general.”

 

Tyr grumbles, retracting his glowing blade. Stephanie doesn’t release Tyr, but she does direct a query to Loki over Tyr’s shoulder. “You in one piece, kid?”

 

“Yes,” he gasps, massaging his throat. “You can let him go now.”

 

She waits a moment, and then releases Tyr, taking a few faltering steps backward before catching herself on a Wonderfully Convenient Pillar, taking in gasping breaths.

 

Tyr turns to look at her before glaring at Loki. “You dare bring a _mortal_ to Hel, Loki?”

 

“I insisted,” Stephanie drawls, huddling into her jacket. “Asgardia just wasn’t enough to impress me.”

 

Tyr purses his lips. “As if mucking about with Thor in your plans wasn’t enough, you have to bring a mortal into Asgardian business,” he growls.

 

“Hey,” Stephanie points at him. The effect is somewhat mitigated by the fact she’s clutching onto the pillar, bone-white, but it’s a valiant effort and Loki mentally applauds her for trying. “I can still nail you with my electro-gooperang.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

She stands up slowly, showing them the strange blade she had tucked against Tyr’s throat only a moment ago. “When it lands, it releases goop and then forces an electric charge through the mess. Which is, like, _all over you_. Also, dude, you’re wearing metal armor. Metal and electricity and goop? You’ll be cleaning that for _months_.”

 

Tyr scoffs, but Loki notes how he takes a few steps backward, closer to Loki. “Loki, what do you want?”

 

“I’m here for Asgardia,” he says with dignity, standing up and moving to Stephanie and offering her his shoulder. When she wraps an around him, he steadies her, continuing to talk to Tyr. “The Mouth of the Serpent is here, is he not?”

 

“Asgardia has very little hope,” Tyr agrees. “Hela is thinking of aligning with him.”

 

“With whom do _you_ align?”

 

Tyr’s shoulders slump, and he passes a hand over his eyes. “There are two serpents’ tongues in Hel,” he mutters, before turning to look at him and Stephanie. “I still stand with Asgardia. But Hela must not know—”

 

“I understand,” he makes sure to put on his serious face for emphasis. “Now, please explain everything.”

 

Stephanie is not aware, not truly, of how important it is that Hel not stand with the Serpent, but she listens attentively nonetheless and her face is grave by the time Tyr finishes. “That is the long and short of it. What do you plan to do?”

 

“This certainly changes a few things,” Loki muses. “I must return to Asgardia before Stephanie fades on us completely, but I will return, Tyr. You have my word.”

 

“I trust your word to be worth as much as goat dung,” Tyr retorts, but he lets them pass.

 

“What is wrong, truly?” he murmurs to her as they pick their way back to Hel-Wolf and Garm.

 

“It feels like a dementor’s been set on me,” she replies through clenched teeth. “Complete with bad memory recall. I’m not welcome here.”

 

“No, mortals usually aren’t.”

 

Garm is scowling at them. “I only bar exit to the dead, youngling. There was no need to set your thug upon me.”

 

Stephanie nudges him.

 

He makes a grandiose bow. “My apologies, Garm, it certainly will not occur again.”

 

“See that it does not,” Garm growls.

 

“Kill you,” Hel-Wolf growls as Loki assists Stephanie in mounting.

 

“Allow me to take you back to Asgardia and check in on Thor, and then I alone will return to the Court of Mephisto,” Loki makes sure his face is set. He knows Stephanie will protest. “If you feel dementors were attacking you, it is scarcely going to be better in Mephisto’s Hel. He is the true ruler of this realm.”

 

“Then you’re coming back here?”

 

“Yes, I need to--,” he cuts himself off. She purses her lips at him, and he remembers his promise to her, about his honesty. “I’m going to play them all,” he confesses.

 

“You will take me back here, then,” she orders him as Hel-Wolf gallops for the World Tree. “I’ll dress more warmly, bring something with me that has good memories.”

 

“Mortals are not meant to traverse Hel,” he protests, though in name only.

 

Her face is set. “I will not leave you alone during this time.”

 

“Very well,” he sighs. “Hel-Wolf, please bring us to my tower.”

 

“Slaughter you all,” Hel-Wolf complains, but he does as he is told.

 

\--

 

She slips into the Spoiler costume. It’s familiar, and the material is thick enough to protect her skin from the small threats of Gotham; it will have to be enough, here.

 

Thor needs to be released; Loki said as much, and from what she overheard between Sif and the “Warriors Three” (Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral—she’s not sure what to make of them as a unit), they agree.

 

While Loki distracts the guards with drugged food (she’s so proud of him), she sneaks into the dungeon via a vent in the ceiling. Dick would be proud of how she manages it—it’s very _Mission Impossible-_ esque. Not quite the sudden cable drop, as she’s certainly lowering herself down carefully, but there’s enough to make her want to hum the theme.

 

“Stephanie?” Thor asks, confused, when she taps him on the shoulder to alert him to her presence.

 

“Sh,” she tells him, getting the lockpicks out from her belt. This was one thing Bruce drilled her on over and over again during her training as Robin, and though she hasn’t used it in years, the knowledge itself hasn’t gone away.

 

“Where is Loki?”

 

“Distracting the guards. Also, currently in one piece. Considering what he has planned, the fact that he’s in one piece with no clothing out of place should be chalked up as a win for me, I think.”

 

“If the All-Father finds you here--.”

 

“I throw down a smoke bomb and hightail my bat-rear out of here. Thor, I may be mortal, as you Asgardians are fond of observing, but this ain’t my first time at the rodeo. Scarier men than Odin have threatened me.”

 

“Oh,” apparently Thor is capable of sarcasm. Who knew. “Yes, of course, allow me to bow to your superior experience.”

 

“Hey, when _Batman_ growls at you and you manage not to wet your pants, get back to me on how scary Odin is, mmkay?”

 

“We must hurry,” Loki hisses, entering the room silently. She awards him brownie points. “Something has happened to Baldr.”

 

“What?” Thor demands.

 

Behind Loki, Sif and the Warriors Three rush in. “He’s right,” Sif gasps. “Baldr has...Thor, your father says Baldr died in defense of Asgardia, but—“

 

“You think he committed suicide,” Steph says through numb lips. She was ambivalent on the (former) king of Asgardia, but he seemed like a good guy, apart from judging child!Loki a little too much.

 

“If Odin awoke from his Odin-sleep, where he had been locked in combat with Surtur in limbo,” Loki starts, darting his eyes from Thor to Sif and back.

 

“Then Surtur can be freed,” Thor completes, paling. “Baldr willingly died so he would end up in limbo, preventing Surtur from returning.”

 

Steph raises her hand. “Um, who’s Surtur?”

 

Fandral bows slightly to her. “Lord of Muspelheimr, the realm of demons and flame.”

 

“And why is it important that he remain locked away?”

 

“He is prophesied to bring doom to Asgard,” Sif explains.

 

“Prophecy again,” Steph mutters, but no one appears to be listening—except Loki, who hears her, and tilts his head, a thoughtful look on his face.

 

“What is this?” a loud voice booms from the doorway.

 

Everyone immediately looks guilty, except Loki, who hides behind Thor. Which, admittedly, is a guilty action.

 

“You dare free Thor?” Odin bellows.

 

Steph places her hands on her hips, looking up at the angry god. “That would be me. Your power trip is going to get people killed. I’m not okay with that. Consider it a side-effect of some of my mistakes.”

 

“She is not a citizen of Asgardia, so disobeying you, All-Father, does not have the same ramifications as though it were one of us,” Volstagg says nervously.

 

“But she does not have the same protections, either,” Odin is staring at her, and wow, she’d thought Bruce had perfected the Death Glare, but Odin’s easily coming in second. “For example—no trial before execution.”

 

“You cannot kill her,” Loki peeks out from behind Thor. “She owes a blood-debt to me.”

 

“Loki,” Odin growls. “You are behind all of this.”

 

“He had help, All-Father,” Sif stands her ground. Steph likes her for that.

 

“All of you, excepting the mortal, are gods in good standing. Loki is Loki, and always shall be.”

 

Thor opens his mouth, but Steph sees Loki squeeze his elbow once.

 

Odin sighs and leans against his huge spear-thing. “However, if you are so damned stubborn to return to Midgard and defend it, I cannot stop you.” Before anyone can react in any way, he bangs the bottom of the spear against the ground and Thor is thrown through a portal, his hammer besides him. The portal disappears with the sharp smell of ozone. Odin turns to go, calling over his shoulder, “Do not allow Loki any more mischief.”

 

Sif, Fandral, and Hogun exit quickly behind him. Volstagg stays, looming over Loki. “There is a task I would return you to.”

 

“Very well,” Loki says quickly, taking a step back. “Stephanie may return to the tower?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Volstagg rubs his eyes. “Do not let the All-Father see you going against him again. He will kill you, blood-debt be damned. You have defied him too long. It takes a certain kind of courage, you are most certainly brave for a mortal, but you should know you are treading on very thin ice. One more time, and you will surely fall through.”

 

“In my defense, I totally didn’t intend to let him catch me here,” Stephanie tells him.

 

“What is it the mortals say? Ah yes— _intent is not magical_.” He sighs. “Sad to say.” Volstagg turns to leave. “I’m expecting to turn around and no longer see you. Either of you. I’m sure you have dungy tasks to return to.”

 

Loki covers his mouth with his hand while his shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, and Steph holds onto him as she uses the grapple to get them out through the vent. Once they’re out, he reminds her, “Dress warmly and grab what you can that will make you feel happy. Then meet me at the World Tree. I have some fast talking to do.” He disappears on Hel-Wolf, who continues his habit of discussing the _lovely_ things he wants to do to their bones and blood.

 

Spoiler will have to be warm enough—the day before her mother forgot her, her Batgirl suit completely disappeared and so did Firewall—but her pictures remained. She runs to the tower, nimbly avoiding all of the panicking Asgardians in her way—thanks a _lot_ Odin, you idiot—to get to the door and take the steps two at a time. Inside the bag that had held Spoiler, she has three pictures. Two of them are in bulky frames, and the first one is of her and her mom, thumbs-up at the camera with her grades from the first semester held between them. The second is older, and she took it when Batgirl/Spoiler training sessions were common. Cass is curled into her, smiling her slight smile, as Steph holds up the camera and grins towards the lens.

 

They make her heart flutter in her chest, but they’re too bulky. Instead, she reaches for the third, one of the strip photos she and Kara had taken during the whole “Dracula-ALLOOONNNNEEEE” thing. It’s laminated, and she tucks it into her special Bat-bra (at least that remained) before adjusting her costume.

 

She doesn’t have many physical reminders of good memories. This will have to do.

 

She checks outside the window, and Iron Man (his identity is pretty easy to figure out, considering that Odin is calling him that in rather a derogatory manner) has arrived. It’s distracting everyone enough that she can slip out of the tower and climb towards the World Tree.

 

She’s never met Iron Man, and she’s not entirely sure she believes in gods, but thank _god_ for Iron Man.

 

Loki’s half-out of a strange metal suit, tear tracks clearly visible on his cheeks. When he sees her, he immediately sits up—or tries to—but the metal suit holds him up. “A little help?” he inquires.

 

She wants to hug him, but he’s broadcasting DON’T TOUCH ME, so she sighs and kneels down to unbuckle the suit. The moment his legs are free, he jumps up, walking around to stimulate movement again. “I’m fine,” he says quickly.

 

Steph places her palms on her thighs and looks up at him calmly. That look worked on Damian, sometimes. “I didn’t say anything.”

 

“You didn’t need to,” he retorts, placing his hands on his head as though he wants to tug on his hair. His cap-hood-thing is in the way.

 

She waits.

 

“We have things to do,” he says sharply. “Are you coming or not?”

 

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

 

He closes his eyes briefly and his shoulders slump. “Asking. I’ve manipulated Mephisto to attempt to invade Hel. I need to warn Hela, so she comes to view me as a source she can trust.”

 

“In turn, that grants you...”

 

“She will,” Loki bites his lower lip. “The Serpent created Dark Asgard. With Hela’s help, I can access his story.”

 

“Like, meta-textually speaking, or literally speaking?”

 

“Both,” Loki says confidently. “But I do need Hela’s help.”

 

She looks up at him and holds out her hand. He assists her to rise, and he whistles, and Hel-Wolf bounds out, blood staining his maw. “Go kill things now?”

 

“Not entirely,” Loki apologizes, mounting and giving his hand to Steph to help her up.

 

“Hate you,” Hel-Wolf informs him as they leap through the realms.

 

“It is not uncommon,” Loki comments, his face hidden from Steph.

 

She isn’t exactly sure what to say—she’s definitely been there—but a sudden cold shock has her pulling her Spoiler cloak around, focusing on the good memories. Laughing with Cass. Eating waffles with Mom. Training and joking with Babs. Fighting Dracula with Kara. The moon bounce with Damian. Seeing London with Beryl. Being told she’s doing a good job by Dick. Slapping Bruce.

 

She feels the corners of the laminated photo bite into her boob. She narrows in on that, picturing the image in her mind.

 

It’s not enough—Black Mask, Tim, and Scarecrow’s voices taunt her at the edge of her consciousness—but it keeps her focus honed.

 

They both slide off of Hel-Wolf and she follows close behind as Loki yells, “Dire news!”

 

\--

 

Hela is perhaps understandably furious with him.

 

She lunges to her feet, striding over to Loki and picking him by the collar. Stephanie is by his side in a second. “Please put him down.”

 

Hela scans her with contempt. “You bring a mortal to my realm, Loki?”

 

Stephanie’s voice is even. “I insisted. Please put him down.”

 

Hela gazes at her long enough for Loki to feel uncomfortable on her behalf. “Yes, I imagine you would.” She releases Loki and he falls to the ground, just barely managing to catch himself on his hands and knees.

 

Unconsciously or consciously, Stephanie helps him up, placing her body between his and Hela. “His news is real.”

 

Hela disregards this. She looks Stephanie over from crown to toes and back again. “What is your name, mortal?”

 

Stephanie’s back stiffens. “Stephanie Brown.”

 

“Hm,” Hela muses, reaching out to grasp her chin. Stephanie allows it, her body beginning to shiver violently the longer the ruler of the dead is touching her.

 

Abruptly, Hela releases her and returns to her throne, crossing one leg over the other. “You are welcome here, Stephanie, daughter of Brown.”

 

Loki feels his eyes widen despite himself.

 

The handmaiden behind Hela also has wide eyes. “My lady?”

 

“No doubt Loki has a purpose for bringing a mortal pet to me,” Hela waves her hand imperiously.

 

“I am _not_ his pet,” Stephanie says viciously.

 

Given what he knows of her...yes, she would hate that word.

 

“His handmaiden, then?” Hela’s lips twist into a smirk. She gestures to her own. “As you see, I have my own, Leah.”

 

“She is my protector,” Loki interjects. “Hela, dire news.”

 

“So you have said.”

 

“Mephisto is planning on invading Hel.”

 

Hela’s eyes blaze. “ _This will not stand_. You could not have mentioned this earlier?”

 

“You did not exactly give me a chance, my lady.”

 

Hela ignores this. “Leah, stay here and keep an eye on Loki. Tyr, I require you.”

 

“But my lady--.”

 

Hela ignores them all and disappears with a swirl of green robes. Tyr directs a look at Loki as he follows her out; Loki bites his lip. Tyr being there had been an integral part of the plan.

 

Plans can change.

 

He turns a charming smile on Leah. “Well, handmaiden to my lady Hela?”

 

She looks less than impressed.

 

Stephanie plants her hands on her hips. “What’s next, Loki?”

 

“I need a moment,” Loki admits, bowing to Leah. She raises an eyebrow as he and Stephanie leave.

 

He thinks he recalls the courtyard. Given Mephisto’s plan to invade Hel, everyone except the most necessary people is out with Hela. “Ikol is scouting for me. I _know_ Mephisto has the Soul-Eaters, but we need proof.”

 

Stephanie looks like she wants to ask something, but he continues on. “That will get Leah out of the way, and then I need to talk to the Serpent’s Tongue. However, since Tyr is acting as General and is with Hela, I need someone else to be ruthlessly intimidating for me.” He looks her up and down. “We could get you a black hooded cloak and a big sword. Think that would work?”

 

“I’m having _The Princess Bride_ flashbacks,” she says drily. “And I’m better with a staff.” She moves aside her purple cloak, showing an extendable staff tucked into her thigh belt. “Although I do have a knife, too,” she pulls a small dagger from her boot. “It’s nonlethal, however.”

 

“Come with me.”

 

The palace in Hel mirrors the palace in Asgardia—he’s not entirely certain why. He doesn’t _think_ Hela is his daughter, thus mourning for lost Asgard. Perhaps they simply have the same architect. Either way, it’s easy to find the rooms devoted to livery and armor. He displaces a thick black cloak, tossing it to Stephanie. She catches it reflexively, undoing her purple cloak and hood and tying the black one in its place.

 

He walks into the armory, and she follows him, the purple cloak folded over her arm. She had not been wearing the cowl of the Spoiler costume, or so she said, but seeing her with her blonde hair free had been different in the purple costume versus the black cloak. “A staff, you said?” He grabs an oaken one, passing it to her. He wanders over to the knives, finding a small one that suits him. He tucks it into his belt, picking up two more of medium size and passing them to Stephanie, who briefly puts down her purple cloak to tuck them into her boots. She also stops to plait her hair.

 

“This is a strange time to be concerned as to your appearance,” he complains.

 

“You want me to look ruthless and intimidating, right?” she shoots back, tying the plait and tucking it under the collar of the cloak. “Removing any sort of easy identifier is a part of that. Besides, my hair hanging loose can be used against me.” When she pulls up the hood, only the gleam of her eyes and the curve of her lips are visible. When she smirks and changes her stance subtly, he shivers despite himself. “All right, I see your point.”

 

She picks up the staff and the purple cloak. Just in time, Ikol flies through the window, bating. “I have the proof that Mephisto has the Soul-Eaters.”

 

He grins at Stephanie. “Pieces begin to come together. Wait outside the throne room; we’ll see the Tongue together.”

 

\--

 

Loki attempts to flirt with Leah. It doesn’t end well.

 

She presses her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles; Loki pouts in response as he gets up, slowly. “You could have helped.”

 

“Did I mention to you how I met Tim?”

 

“No, you left that out in your narrative.”

 

“I hit him in the face with a brick.”

 

Loki cringes. “I can see why this would be amusing for you and Ikol.”

 

She really wants to know who Ikol is—he’s mentioned him offhandedly a couple of times, and Leah can ‘see’ him—but either because she’s a Muggle or...okay, there is no ‘or,’ she’s pretty sure it’s because she’s a Muggle—she can’t see him. What _is_ Ikol, anyway? Leah mentioned that it’s an anagram, just like her name is, so Ikol...

 

Koli...

 

Or— _Loki_.

 

This is really not the time to wonder if her charge (she’s amusing herself by thinking of him as her ‘ward’) is somehow mentally unstable. But if it’s an extension of externalizing his guilt...

 

Yeah. Not the time.

 

She trails Loki as he ‘charms’ the guards into letting him into the Tongue’s chambers, and wow, okay, that is exactly why he’s called the Tongue. Does exactly what it says on the tin. Okay.

 

(Gross).

 

She stands behind and to the left of Loki, looking appropriately menacing (and you thought I couldn’t be, _Tim_ ).

 

Behind the Tongue’s guards, she spots Tyr in the window and she relaxes fractionally. From what she sees and has heard, the Serpent, his tools, and their guards are hardly human, but she’s not exactly— _thrilled_ to have to kill. Ever.

 

Though being Loki’s protector may test that. A lot.

 

“It may be just that I wished to distract,” Loki finishes blithely. “Do you know what that sound is? The symphonic perfection of a spine breaking.” She flinches only slightly—not even the cloak gives her away—but Loki’s eyes flick over her anyway.

 

Um. She may have to explain about Gotham in greater detail. She only told him up to ‘dying’ and returning to Gotham. Nothing about the trainwreck that was  “Gotham Underground,” Bruce dying, etc.

 

“I wouldn’t turn around unless you wish for an encore,” Loki says, bored, running a finger along his crown-tiara-thing.

 

The Tongue points a quivering finger at Loki as Tyr pulls his head back, putting a knife to his throat. “You-you—.”

 

“Oh, _do_ go on. In fact, go on enough to tell me everything about my dear Uncle’s plan to destroy Asgardia and the world, please?”

 

“I won’t talk,” the Tongue snarls—or tries to. He ends up going “ _hlk_ ” when Tyr presses the blade tighter against his throat.

 

“Oh, everyone talks in the end,” Steph says smoothly, feeling her hand tighten on her staff. “In fact, I’m sure we can work out something especial for you, due to time constraints.” Yes, Steph, let’s go to the Black Mask place.

 

After all, the universe is in danger if the Asgardians aren’t succumbing to fear-driven exaggeration.

 

The Tongue goes—well, it would be pale-r on a human being, but since it has more than a passing resemblance to a toad, it just...swells. “A _mortal_ , Loki? You must indeed be deprived of allies. And you won’t kill me. The Serpent will simply raise me again.”

 

Steph tosses her head, displacing her hood. Her eyes are ice cold, she knows. It feels like her whole face is icing over, except that her body is very hot under the cloak. “Oh, surely you know about mortals by now. We’re perfectly happy to torture, maim, wound, and otherwise kill each other. It’s how so many of us get our _jollies_.”

 

Yeah...she has no idea where this malice is coming from. Maybe in an alternate universe she went evil.

 

The Tongue swallows convulsively. “You cannot make me talk, and if I die, the Serpent will bring me back,” he insists. She absently wonders if that’s his version of his name, rank, and serial number.

 

“ _If_ you die,” Loki’s voice is light, easy. That just makes what he’s saying worse. “I see your future, and it is knee-bound, tear-faced, and bloody-lipped. It sees your eyes dancing at the end of meaty cords and your tongue sore-crowned in the belly of the beast. You are in the hands of Loki, and you are deep in the lands of Hel. From where you find yourself, you will not be able to see mere misery.” He leans forward slightly, crossing one leg over the other and steepling his fingers. “You will gift me secrets, and I will gift you death. You do not? Well,” his eyes flicker with malicious mirth. “Then you will _truly_ know Loki.”

 

The Tongue swallows again. And then he gives them everything they want to know.

 

\--

 

Loki automatically cringes back from the spray of blood as Tyr slits the Tongue’s throat. Once that’s done, Tyr begins to clean his blade, glaring at Loki. “I would not have tortured him. I have no stomach for that.”

 

Ikol flies from Stephanie’s shoulder to his, chuffing at Tyr. Stephanie sighs, her face pale and set. “Neither would I. Oh, and this may not be a great time to mention it, kid, but I’m not going to kill anyone for you. I don’t kill, ever.”

 

“What kind of warrior does not kill?” Tyr inquires. He doesn’t mean it maliciously, Loki knows—Stephanie’s quiet menace had impressed him, even if she was unaware.

 

“One trained by Batman,” Stephanie replies quietly. “I regretted it once, but I will not kill.”

 

“Not even under extraordinary circumstances?” he asks. Well. He has to ask. He is Loki, and people try to kill him on a fairly regular basis.

 

Stephanie’s eyes flicker with the slightest uncertainty. “A case could be made for that, but only under _truly_ extraordinary circumstances.”

 

She shrugs off the black cloak, using a corner of it to dab at her face and neck. “Anyone notice how it got cold in here all of a sudden?” she asks.

 

He peers at her. “You did not complain.”

 

“Well, not in front of the Tongue,” she makes a scornful noise. “But, since Hela ‘welcomed’ me into Hel, all of the dementor recall and accompanying coldness went straight away.”

 

“She gave you a gift indeed,” Tyr nods. “You may be the first mortal to have enjoyed it. I do not know—I have not been long in her service.”

 

Stephanie offers the cloak to him so he can daub Tongue blood off his clothes. “Also, kid,” she says from the corner of her mouth, “I’m telling Thor about your dreadful lust. I’m sure he’ll lock you up in that tower until, oh, your hair is long enough that you can use it as an escape route.”

 

He gasps despite himself. “You _wouldn’t_.”

 

She grins, wiping a drop of blood off his forehead with her fingertip. “Oh, try me.”

 

“I knew I liked her,” Ikol caws.

 

He side-eyes Ikol. “Well, we should open the scroll,” he sighs. He breaks the seal and he feels his eyes widen (this is happening far too much. He’s _Loki_ , how much can truly surprise him?

 

A lot, apparently).

 

“Well. That’s not good.”

 

Stephanie peers over his shoulder, and either his magick is working or her indomitable mortal spirit is adaptable or the All-Tongue has moved to the written word, but she understands every word. “Oh shit. We need to get to Hela, _now_.”

 

“Come,” Tyr urges, gesturing them out the door. “We must hurry.”

 

Tyr covers their exit, and he and Stephanie run as quickly as they can to the border between Mephisto’s Hell and Hel. She’s more than capable of keeping up with him, something he appreciates, but he notes that she’s beginning to tire.

 

Oh wait. How long has it been since she’s eaten? You are _terrible_ at feeding your mortal, Loki, he scolds himself. They die if not properly attended to.

 

“Direst news!” he pants out once they reach Hela and Mephisto. Mephisto’s eyebrows skyrocket when he sees Stephanie and _damnit_ , he’d been hoping to avoid having to introduce them. Mephisto is overfond of slipping the rug out beneath his feet. That he _does_ remember.

 

“The Serpent does not care if Hela agrees to pledge to his cause,” he breathlessly explains, opening the scroll on the ground and beginning to read aloud the contents, “because he’s already arranged an uprising to upset the power balance in Hel.”

 

“Ridiculous,” Hela says crisply. “I know my subjects. They would not plot against me.”

 

He passes her the scroll. Stephanie’s doing her best to look invisible, and for the most part, it appears to be working. “So too I thought, but this message is clearly directed at those who _would_.”

 

Hela takes the scroll, scanning the contents. She closes her eyes and sighs. “I cannot fight an army within and without,” she admits.

 

Mephisto raises his hands, glittering energy engulfing them. “And as much as it pains me, I cannot take over your realm before the Serpent’s plans come to fruition.”

 

“Pardon me,” the stutter is intentional, but as clever as Mephisto and Hela are, they do not catch the artifice. “Perhaps I speak out of turn, but I may have a solution.”

 

They hammer out the deal—and it takes nearly half an hour by mortal counting—but in the end, most are satisfied.

 

Then Mephisto turns to Loki. “As... _insurance_ , shall we say, you shall leave your mortal pet here, with us, until you return from Limbo. Just to ensure you _will_ return.”

 

He sees Stephanie bite her lip, but she doesn’t say anything. Wise. “No,” he protests immediately. “She is my guardian. Where I am going, I will require her.”

 

Mephisto’s eyebrow raise is perfectly sardonic. “I am certain you are more than capable of the task. What is the harm? Between Hela and myself, you can be assured she will not come to harm.”

 

“If you fight about this, he will know she is a weak spot for you,” Ikol murmurs to him. “Your first protest—he anticipated it, and he does not give it much weight. He thinks it token. If you continue to fight for her, you give him ammunition against you.”

 

He catches Stephanie’s eye and tries to say ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’ without mouthing it. Her shoulders barely slump, and she nods slightly.

 

“Very well,” he says faux-lightly. “But know this, Mephisto—if one hair on her head is charred, I will hurt you.”

 

Mephisto spreads his hands. “My friend, I would hardly expect less.”

 

He stares off into the distance. “Allow me to find the proper place for us to gather,” he offers. “I believe the mortals call it ‘New Jersey.’”

 

Stephanie’s eyes crinkle, like she wishes to laugh, but she restrains herself.

 

He walks away, chatting absently to Ikol. He’s barely known Stephanie for twenty-four hours, and he’s left her in the care of Mephisto already. This bodes _so_ well for their future partnership.

 

\--

 

While Loki’s...away (and she’s not clingy) she feels exposed. With Loki there, she has a reason for being in this dimension (no matter how often everyone questions her presence—it’s getting really tiring, okay?). With him, y’know, _not there_ , she has no idea what to do.

 

Added to that, Mephisto’s giving her a Creeper Look. She has a history with Creeper Looks, but when the one giving the Creeper Look is a Lord of Hell...

 

Somehow, hitting him so hard he sees stars doesn’t exactly seem like an option.

 

Thankfully, Hela is fully aware of the skeezy eyes, so she’s keeping her pretty close.  Wow, Diary, never thought _that_ would happen—a goddess of the dead keeping an eye out for me from the _freaking Lord of HELL_. What the hell is my life, Diary?

 

“Once Loki has returned from Limbo, you will be returned to him,” Hela says quietly. Mephisto is consulting with one of his people. Steph doesn’t really know how to describe the...person who is vaguely humanoid. Nor does she want to. “Unfortunately, he has a history of backing out of or twisting deals, and this was one he needs to uphold.”

 

Steph glances at Mephisto—nope, still engrossed in whatever—and she leans in towards Hela. “Can you, um, explain why you ‘welcomed’ me into Hel?”

 

Hela’s lips twist into a strange smile. “I foresee Loki will be spending much time here, in the future. It would be best if his guardian was not gutted from cold and horrible memories.”

 

“That’s _a_ reason, but not _the_ reason.” And you thought I couldn’t be subtle, Bruce.

 

Hela glances towards Mephisto. “So that you have the protection of Hel.”

 

Steph blinks, and blinks again. “Excuse me. My tiny mortal brain in incapable of parsing that. Could you say it again?”

 

Hela looks way too amused to have dropped a bombshell like that. “You have the protection of Hel. If anyone attempts to harm you, I have the right to rise up against them on your behalf.”

 

She eyes Hela suspiciously. “ _Why_?”

 

Hela shrugs elegantly, lounging on her throne, and—okay, she really needs a better dress. “Loki, in his current form, cannot much protect you. Thor _could_ , but anyone who harms you in Thor’s presence is a fool and deserves their fate.”

 

“Look, even I know that kind of protection comes with a price. Why would you--?”

 

“Games within circles, and circles with games, daughter of Brown. You are indebted to me now, and I may call on that.”

 

“If I hadn’t asked you what this meant, would I still have been in debt to you?”

 

“Oh, your nature is far too curious not to ask, especially when you have observed the reactions of Loki, Leah, and Tyr. I commend you for your deception with the Tongue. Be wary of being influenced, however.” Hela tilts her head as Steph stares at her. “Did you and Loki honestly believe I am blind to what occurs within mine own realm?”

 

“I think he’d hoped,” Steph says hoarsely.

 

“He is a fool, then,” Hela’s lips curl. “Still, well played. He took a risk, but it did pay well for him and for me.”

 

“Tell me something,” Mephisto drawls, sticking his hands in his pockets and sauntering over to two of them. “Why is it that Loki feels the need to drag a mortal pet to Hel?”

 

Steph glances at Hela, who looks less than impressed. “Why dress the Soul-Eaters in bustiers and little else? Unto everything there is a purpose. How noble that purpose is depends on the situation and the personage involved.”

 

Mephisto raises his hands. “Peace, Hela. It was merely a question.”

 

“One that this ‘mortal pet’ is under no obligation to answer,” Hela retorts. “If you seek to make trouble with Loki, make trouble with Loki, not his pets who have no control over where they roam.”

 

“Why defend her so ardently?”

 

“You dress the Soul-Eaters in garb that hardly suits their twisted forms. You have no place to question the habits of a trickster who has strange affectations.”

 

Mephisto, honest-to-god, _pouts_. “Still harping on the wardrobe choices, I see.”

 

“Indeed, I wonder how it is you made that choice. Were you so desperate to prove control over the Soul-Eaters that you must needs to remind them in a visceral way who has the power and who does not?” Hela tilts her head. Steph moves out of the way of the crown. “Is your base of power that fragile?”

 

“Loki has returned,” Tyr’s face opens up in a green mist-mirror-portal-thing in front of all of them. “He has what he requires.”

 

Hela stands, forcing Mephisto to take a step back. “Very well. Daughter of Brown, I warn you, this method of travel is uncomfortable—.”

 

Then she’s shoved through the green-mist-mirror-portal-thing and uncomfortable, oh goddess of the dead? Doesn’t even _cover_ it.

 

The first thing she does is vomit once she’s through. And that reminds her she hasn’t eaten in like 12 hours, and _that’s_ when her stomach chooses to protest her Very Bad Life Decisions. Once she’s done (she’s getting flashbacks to morning sickness, but at least she isn’t pregnant), she pulls herself up via the pole on the swing set, and glares at Leah, Loki, Tyr, and the Disir. “I don’t care what you’re telling yourselves, but we need to play Feed the Mortal. I don’t look pretty after I’ve passed out from lack of nutrition.”

 

Loki steps forward. “That’s easily enough fixed,” he says cheerily. “Oh, have you met the Destroyer?”

 

She stares at the giant metal man that exits the shadows to stand behind Loki and pick him up carefully, putting him on it’s shoulder. “No, I was not, um, lucky enough to do so.”

 

“We’re going to destroy Dark Asgard,” Loki chirps. He pats the Destroyer. “ _He_ will help us. I’m sure we can scare up some food for you while these lovely ladies wrangle our invitation.”

 

The head undead warrior woman (honestly, Steph can’t quite keep their names straight) points her sword at Loki. “Do not presume, child.”

 

Loki covers his chest with his hand, his eyes theatrically large.

 

Steph rolls her eyes. “Okay, how we are getting to Dark Asgard, or whatever? Is it that huge thing hanging out behind you?”

 

“Oh yes!”

 

“Of course it is,” she echoes. She turns to look at their esteemed company. “Very well. My life is in your hands—for the next half hour.”

 

\--

 

It takes the Soul-Eaters roughly fifteen to twenty minutes to infiltrate Dark Asgard, during which time he, Tyr, and Leah watch in fascination as Stephanie “power-eats” (her term, you understand) roughly two meals from the house of the red-and-yellow jester. Her eating is methodical yet quick; she’s clearly not tasting her food, only pausing long enough to chew it before swallowing it.

 

Leah sniffs in contempt. “This is not true food.”

 

Stephanie nods, finishing up her second sandwich of chicken and lettuce on a poor excuse for bread. “No, it isn’t,” she agrees once she’s done, wiping her fingers with the fake cloths they provide for such things. “But it gets the job done, and believe me, that’s essential where I come from. Besides, I work the calories off.”

 

Leah inclines her head gravely.

 

Tyr ushers them out once Stephanie has finished. “We are being hailed.”

 

“Wait, is this teleportation again--.”

 

They appear in the main hall, and the head Soul-Eater complains, “The lovely prey nicked us!”

 

“The Serpent’s magic is forgotten magic,” he says absently, watching Stephanie stumble over to the wall, clutching it as her face turns grey. She swallows convulsively, clearly choking down the bile. “As far as I understand it, it cuts both ways. They did not know the perils of naming you, but your curse does not protect you from their arms.”

 

“In other words, their blades can hack you apart,” Tyr says with interest. “Oh, a _true_ tragedy. However, this is an important mission,” he eyes the head Soul-Eater. “We can afford a few...casualties.”

 

“Oh Tyr, one day we will raid Hel again, my sisters and I, and our kisses will be sweet and bloody,” the Soul-Eater breathes.

 

“There are children present! Cease your flirtation,” Loki says, aggrieved. “Leah? Where are we?”

 

Stephanie walks back over to them, carefully avoiding the Soul-Eaters. She’s trembling slightly, no doubt a side-effect from the teleportation, but she clutches her staff, the extendable one from her thigh belt.

 

“A moment,” Leah sighs. “We need to get the Twilight Blade to the exact location--.”

 

“You need a distraction,” Stephanie observes.

 

Loki feels himself smile. Ikol whistles, flying through the air to land on his shoulder. “Oh, Destroyer?” He gestures to the walls. “Act in a suitably eponymous fashion.”

 

“You could have just ordered him to destroy,” Stephanie shoves him lightly, her color bettering all the time.

 

“ _That_ would have been far too plebian.”

 

“Clearly.”

 

The Destroyer destroys several walls. “By Odin’s empty eye socket,” Tyr breathes. “Couldn’t we just--?”

 

“Not enough power. The Destroyer would be scrap,” Loki replies. “We cannot face this god of fear directly. Nothing can defeat him--,” he looks up at Stephanie, whose face spreads in a grin. “Nothing except hope.”

 

“Where did you pull _that_ from?” one of the other Soul-Eaters (Kara, he thinks, _Kara_ ) wonders.

 

“Reality,” Stephanie says pleasantly.

 

Loki smothers a chuckle, and looks at Leah. “Are we where we need to be with our necessary location?”

 

“We need to move,” the head Soul-Eater says immediately. “Come.”

 

They begin to trail her, and she kills various Midgardians along the way. Stephanie looks ill, but she says nothing. He reaches out, squeezes her elbow. She looks down at him. “Sorry. Being silly.”

 

“You have a code. Be proud that you have stuck with it,” he reassures her. “All-Father knows that I am apparently not capable of such.”

 

She wants to respond to that, he can tell, but Tyr brushes past them and the moment is lost.

 

“The library,” Leah says immediately, “here.”

 

Tyr takes a step inside. “Aye, indeed— _curses_.”

 

“No, likely not. Just an alarm.”

 

“It is,” Leah agrees, her eyes narrowing. “They are coming.”

 

“Do they have a cave troll?”

 

Everyone looks at Stephanie. She looks down the hall, embarrassed. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

 

“We must hurry,” Leah urges. “Loki, now.”

 

They begin to search for the specific book, and Loki loses track of Stephanie, of the Soul-Eaters, of Tyr, as they find it and he readies a quill.

 

\--

 

Steph is kinda bemused by the current proceedings. Okay, so the Disir are actually okay people, even if she doesn’t want to spend all of her time with them. Even Tyr has a sense of humor, something she didn’t expect, but it reminds her of the first time Bruce joked in her presence and...yeah.

 

While Leah and Loki are clustered over a book, while Leah _opens a vein_ for Loki to use as ink, she scans the titles. Most, if not all, are written in the Old Language (which she obviously doesn’t speak), but there is one that catches her attention. It’s a book with gold lettering on the spine, with a midnight-blue cover. It’s buried behind some other books, but she can see JOUR, and it’s pretty enough to catch her attention, so she struggles with the other tomes until she’s able to pull it out.

 

The full title on the cover is JOURNEY INTO MYSTERY set against a crescent moon. Since it’s the only title in English that she’s seen, she pages through it.

 

Loki’s name shows up a _lot_.

 

On the last written-on page, she catches:

           

                        _So **Loki** did give in, and he allowed himself to be—_

 

Before she’s able to complete it, Loki announces, “Done!” and Leah wraps up her arm, observing, “It seems strange to wrap up such a small wound when larger ones are clearly to come.”

 

Steph shuts the book and places it on the top of the pile, following them out as the Destroyer breaks down walls. “Do not stop except for important staying alive business!” Loki calls out insistently.

 

Still, Steph looks behind her, in order to properly cover their exit, and as she runs with them, and sees—no, it’s not possible, Steph, the stress and things are messing with your mind.

 

“We must destroy these great, grand engines,” Loki entreaties. “In the meantime, Leah, could you open a portal--.”

 

“To a place not here? Of _course_.”

 

“Oh no, you are not teleporting me out of here,” Steph protests immediately.

 

Loki and Leah exchange a look, so naturally, she’s the first one pushed through.

 

They land outside of Asgardia, and Loki scrambles to the top of the ridge as they see two figures fall. Their party stays back to give him space—except Steph, because she knows this wasn’t something he wanted. She follows after, almost tripping on loose rocks and dirt, but pressing on anyway.

 

When she gets there, she sees Odin cradling Thor’s body. Loki turns aside. “Hope lost.”

 

She closes her eyes, feeling her heart wrench. What has she done?

 

“You gave me the strength to do what needed to be done,” Loki says, numbly answering the question she didn’t mean to say out loud, burying his face in his hands. “Without it—I do not know what would have occurred. Without it, the universe might well have been lost. So for that, I thank you.”

 

She pulls his hands away from his face, and his eyes are brimming with tears. “Stop thinking of the universe, Loki. Think of _you_. It’s okay to grieve.” A lump rises in her throat, and she swallows it with difficulty. “I’m grieving, too.”

 

He looks at her, looking utterly lost and far too young. She opens her arms, and he crawls into them, sobbing as his heart breaks.

 

\--

 

Once he dries his tears, he pulls away from Stephanie. She had freely offered comfort, and he had accepted, but that moment is past, now. He pulls himself up, looking up at Ikol, who fluffs his feathers and looks elsewhere.

 

Ikol does not approve of Loki crying like a girl.

 

He finds he does not care.

 

“So what now?” Tyr rasps as he and Stephanie join them at the bottom of the ridge. “I thought that—“

 

“Thor was always going to have to die,” he says slowly, dread knotting his stomach and turning his words to ash. “A life for a life. We merely gave him a chance for it to mean something.”

 

“You have saved us,” Leah reminds him.

 

He snorts, unable to help himself. “I have mortgaged myself and my future to dreadful creatures of great power. I have freed one of Asgard’s worst enemies and assisted in killing Asgard’s greatest protector. I have dug my own brother’s tomb—my brother, who was _my_ greatest protector, and I have to return to a place where the people loathe me and I no longer have that protection. But you’re right, Leah—let me save that worry for tomorrow thanks to our newly-purchased dawn.”

 

Stephanie’s hand squeezes his shoulder, just in time to for him to choke down _more_ tears. He takes a deep breath, and forces a smile for Tyr, for Leah, for Ikol. “I would like to think about my brother just now, if that’s quite all right.”

 

“Do you want to be alone?” Stephanie asks softly once they’re away from their party, who teleport back to Hel.

 

“Yes,” he sighs, “and no. I want Thor, my sweet idiot big brother. I do not—I do not want to return to Asgardia, not yet.”

 

She smiles at him. “So let’s not. Isn’t there an ice cream place in Broxton?”

 

“They will wonder where I am,” he says reluctantly. “They will suspect me. And—it will be well-deserved.”

 

“You know, there’s a man in my dimension—I don’t know if you have your own version of him, you have Anderson Cooper, so maybe—but he said something really profound, that I know really well. He said that grief isn’t an emotion that comes from within you. Instead, grief is something that comes to visit, with its own size, its own baggage. If you ignore it, it’s like a wolf at the door.” She shrugs, trying to find pockets to shove her hands into, but she’s still in the purple jumpsuit. “Take a moment to grieve, kid. Suspicion and mistrust are there, but tend to you right now.”

 

They walk in silence, passing fields and raising tiny clouds of dust with each step. “How could you leave it all?” he asks suddenly. “I hate Asgardia, but I cannot imagine leaving everyone I know behind and jumping dimensions to attend to a debt to a man I hardly know.”

 

She swallows, convulsively. “There was...some sort of coming cataclysm,” she says tonelessly. “We’ve—there’s been a couple of them. There are warning signs. Everyone I knew and loved were starting to be...tweaked, in some way. And I was being forgotten. So I left.” She rolls one shoulder in a shrug. “I guess I figured—dimension-hopping meant I still existed as ‘me,’ so there’s a chance I can return. Staying would have meant I disappeared completely. I’d rather visit a world I don’t know than cease to exist.”

 

“’Change or die. I would rather die than _not_ change,’” he mutters. Strange, how similar his older self and Stephanie are on this account.

 

Especially because he thinks if Stephanie _knew_ his older self the way the Asgardians do, she would never trust _him_.

 

“I guess,” Stephanie says with a strange, twisted look.

 

“It’s just—Thor was—“

 

“The only option to keep everyone safe,” Stephanie says quietly. “I know. Sometimes you have to do terrible things to the people you love in order to make the world a better place. It always sucks, and there’s always fallout, but it straightens itself out in the end.”

 

“Are you sure?” he pleads like the child he feels he is, needing a child’s reassurance that as terrible as the world can get, there is still happiness just waiting on the morrow.

 

They stop at the ice cream place, and Stephanie holds the door open for him. “I don’t know what the future holds, kid, but I’m sure that whatever happens, everything will resolve in the end.”

 

The ice cream merchant is happy to take their orders (especially since Loki doesn’t believe in smashing their plateware). Stephanie orders the chocolate cherry with a rather...lascivious look on her face to the dispenser, a young man with dark hair and brown eyes and uncertain parentage, while he sticks with his favorite, mint chocolate chip.

 

He’s not entirely certain _why_ he prefers this flavor, only that he also enjoys mint in other foods—mint jelly, mint tea, etc—and the taste of chocolate is agreeable. They sit down at a corner booth, and watching Stephanie eat reminds him that despite the fact she ate roughly an hour and a half ago, she has not eaten much this day.

 

He resolves to do better tomorrow.

 

“So, is this consumption of ice cream a familiar ritual to you?”

 

To his surprise, she laughs. “Oh yeah. After a long night of kicking criminal butt and feeding my thirst for justice, nothing soothes a girl like half a pint of ice cream. Trust me on this one.”

 

“I doubt there will be much...thirst for justice,” he says lightly.

 

She points her spoon at him. “Be careful what you wish for, mister. With my luck, _you never know_.” She knocks on the wood of the table quite obviously.

 

He holds up his hands in surrender, his eyes twinkling.

 

They finish their ice cream and head back to Asgardia. Loki’s steps drag more and more, the closer they return, and he’s truly tired. Stephanie must be exhausted, her face is grey, but she stops him halfway home. “Come on, jump on my back.”

 

“What?”

 

“Kid, you look half-dead. I’ll carry you.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” the protest is half-hearted, but grief and exhaustion are taking their toll.

 

She raises an eyebrow, and wordlessly, he climbs up, resting his head on her shoulder as she locks her hands underneath his knees.

 

He must have fallen asleep like that, because when he wakes, they’re at the tower. Asgardia is rife with wailing, of heroes and Asgardians alike, and he sleepily wonders how he could have slept through that.

 

In the half-light of the few torches in his tower, Stephanie’s face has progressed from grey to pallor, but her movements—slow as they might be—are methodical as she walks up the stairway with him. “Are you good for tonight?” she asks quietly, her voice raspy with exhaustion.

 

He nods.

 

She half-smiles, rubbing his head before exiting to the story below, and disappearing into the room there. He waits for a moment, looking for Ikol, but Ikol has flown off for the night.

 

No worry. He will return.

 

\--

 

The funeral is awful.

 

She doesn’t belong here, but Loki’s stuck between her and Sif, and though Sif has her moments of affection for him, she’s grieving, and for too long, Loki was someone who put her and Thor in danger. She’s in a mood to tolerate, no more than that.

 

Loki needs someone here for him.

 

She hates funerals, always has. The expectation of showing your grief—she may not be Cass or Babs, but living with her parents (prior to Mom rebooting her life after Dad ‘died’) taught her to hide her most extreme emotions.

 

And she is grieving, but she’s grieving more for Loki than for Thor. Thor died in battle—he’ll go on to Valhalla or whatever. Loki has it worse—he must stay behind.

 

Asgardia is trembling on an edge; everyone’s waiting for the sign that will tip them over, one end or the other. She thinks about Gotham after Bruce ‘died,’ and she shudders to imagine that chaos coming here.

 

But maybe that’s the difference between Gotham and Asgardia; both Thor and Bruce were the protectors of their chosen cities, but if Bruce inspired everyone else to come after him, and everyone was seen as an extension of The Batman, in Asgardia, Thor never came first. All of the warriors are seen as individuals (though maybe not the Warriors Three). Bruce never had that.

 

Sif steps forward, lights the pyre. It takes with a _whoosh_ , and Loki gulps audibly, his eyes never leaving his brother’s body. She grasps his shoulders and he leans back against her, breathing in deeply to stave off the sobs.

 

Their attention is caught by Volstagg exclaiming something. He points to the balcony of the palace, overlooking the square. Steph shields her vision to see three women standing there.

 

“The All-Mother,” Loki breathes. “Gaea, Freyja, and Iðunn.” He sits down, reverently. She remains standing, feeling awkward.

 

Across the way, a man dressed in a blue-and-red patterned costume and Iron Man look just as awkward as she feels.

 

“Sif,” Loki murmurs.

 

“Sh,” the goddess hushes, not looking at him as she bows.

 

Steph’s attention is caught by flickers of white light erupting from over the funeral pyre. She turns to stare at it. She may never have seen a ceremonial cremation before, but she’s pretty sure that’s not supposed to happen.

 

Which is, of course, cue for a huge guy jumping out the flames wielding an axe, claiming, “Rejoice! Celebrate once again the birth of Tanarus!”

 


	2. Act 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General trigger warning for violence, though there's a trigger warning for blood, drugging without consent, discussion of rape (and really patriarchal ideas about it), and implied abuse. Again, if there was triggering content I didn't warn for, give me a head's-up.

Loki enters his tower room. “Stephanie?” He looks around, expecting to find her curled up against and instead, his eyes land on the bed in the corner. It’s taken the place of his mat and is covered with blankets and pillows.

 

He frowns. “Stephanie?”

 

“Up here,” he hears from the open window. He goes to it, looking out. Her hand waves to him—she’s on the roof.

 

He peers up. There isn’t any rope or anything to suggest how she got up there, except by perhaps jumping or climbing. With difficulty, he maneuvers himself to join her on the thatch of the roof. “Stephanie--.”

 

She holds up a hand. She’s immersed in a book. “The powerful queen is about the melt the wicked wizard. Hang on. Also,” she roots her free hand through the satchel at her side, picking up a disc case. “Movie night. You, me, and Leah.”

 

He takes the disc case and scans it. “ _The Lion King_?”

 

“Hamlet, with lions and songs. You’ll love it.”

 

He stares down at it in disgust. “ _Singing_ lions?”

 

“If you’re watching an animated film, there’s already a suspension of disbelief in place,” she points out, turning the page. “Besides, it’s a great animated classic. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll whoop with joy at the ending. All of those things.”

 

“Stephanie.”

 

She looks up at last. “What’s wrong? What did the All-Mother say?”

 

“That they know I freed Surtur so I could save the universe from the Serpent.”

 

“And what exactly will they be doing with that knowledge?”

 

“Blackmailing me. They won’t tell Asgardia what I did in exchange for me doing favors for them.” He shifts, lying back on the thatch. “But Asgardia can’t know that they’re working with me.”

 

Stephanie rolls over to look at him. “Should I go with you to them the next time?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Kid.”

 

He sighs. “If you show up without an invitation...”

 

“Ah.” Stephanie shifts, rolling onto her back.

 

“And Tanarus...he’s _not_ my brother.”

 

“Loki...are you sure about that?”

 

“Yes,” he says vehemently. He looks at her. “You don’t like him.”

 

She shifts again. “Loki, I--.”

 

“You don’t.”

 

“Loki, I don’t _know_ him. His whole funeral-rebirth thing was a week and a half ago.”

 

“But still.”

 

She sighs. “He sets off my creeper buttons.”

 

Loki waits. He’s been getting better at slang—thanks to the Internet—but this is one that requires explanation.

 

“Let’s take Fandral—he’s what we consider a flirt. A chivalrous pervert, kind of. He thinks most women are lesser than him, but he genuinely respects them. He just doesn’t consider them equals. Creepers, on the other hand...” she’s silent for a moment. “Where I grew up, I had to be aware and alert of anyone who might hurt me at any given moment. Being trained by the Bat didn’t change that—it just turned that internal alert up. Tanarus, in contrast to Fandral, sets off my ‘do not ever be alone with him ever’ buttons. And I don’t recall feeling that way before the Serpent.”

 

“So you think I’m right, that he _isn’t_ my brother.” Loki sits up, excited.

 

“There may be a chance,” Stephanie allows. “There’s no proof, though.”

 

Loki waves a hand. “I’ll get proof.”

 

“Don’t take unnecessary risks,” she warns him.

 

“Me? Unnecessary risks?” Then he remembers what he wanted to ask. “How did you even get up, here?”

 

She rolls her eyes at him. “I was a Bird and a Bat before you were thought of, kid. How do you think I got up here?”

 

“I would perhaps give greater weight to that statement was I aware of the effect of the Batman and Robin,” he drawls.

 

She slaps his shoulder slightly with her slight paperbacked tome. “Don’t be rude.”

 

He snorts as he starts to pick his way back to the window. Stephanie stops him. “Don’t forget—movie night tonight. With Leah, and all of the good things that come with movies. Popcorn. Various candy. Carbonated sugar drinks. All these good things.”

 

“I don’t know how I can get Leah here—oh! And what is a bed doing here?”

 

“You’re welcome,” she yawns and sits up, tucking her book into her satchel and strapping it across her body. “Get inside. I’m following.”

 

He seats himself on the ledge and swings himself into the tower room. Stephanie slides into the room gracefully, stretching. “Look. You have a love of throwing yourself off buildings,” her tone was light and teasing, but her eyes were hard. “If you sleep in a bed, you are much less likely to injure yourself when you throw yourself off buildings. Also. Sleeping on a mat does not equal an act of remorse. It is an act of guilt.”

 

He sighs, seeing Ikol land on the windowsill with an earthworm poking out of his beak. “Oh, very well.”

 

“Go get Leah in time, okay?” she persists, opening the door to the stairs. “Living in a cave is not as interesting as it sounds. And I was trained in the Bat-Cave.”

 

She disappears down the stairs, and he catches himself wondering yet again how her frequent references to her training and her history are supposed to mean anything to him, when he doesn’t know the importance of said references.

 

She had been...less than pleased when she discovered Leah was living in a cave. Her remarks had been—memorable. He winces, remembering her comments (remarkably, she did not need to yell or half-choke him to death to be sure he knew of her displeasure. It was a change from his usual treatment, but her biting words stayed in the back of his mind far longer than it took for the bruises to fade).

 

“Come, Ikol,” he grumbles, flinging open the door and pattering down the stairs. He glances through the open door to Stephanie’s room; she’s on her stomach on a bed of her own, ankles in the air, as she peruses the text she had been reading on the roof.  “We must invite Leah.”

 

\--

 

Steph yawns as she looks over the sleep-crumpled forms of her charges (now two. Leah may officially be there to ensure Loki upholds his promises to Hela, but Leah’s safety is also Steph’s concern, given the command Hela had given her in exchange for keeping her away from Mephisto). They’re tangled together (her laptop screen isn’t _that_ large and they’d had to get up close with each other’s personal space to fully appreciate the cinematic brilliance of _The Lion King_ ), and also, fast asleep.

 

She takes a quick picture. It’s too good to pass up.

 

She likes Leah—the other girl is biting and snarky in a way that would be Damian if he was under Babs’ tutelage (which, okay, scary idea, but the point is the same)—and Leah clearly doesn’t think much of Loki.

 

Which...may actually be good for the kid. If it gets to actual meanness, she’ll put a stop to it, but if Leah stops his ego-tripping (which he does actually do, and in that he _does_ remind her of Damian). Well. All’s well that end’s well, yes?

 

She leaves them, to head to her own room. It’s sparse (she’s not entirely sure how much to personalize it; how long might she be here?), but the bed is _heavenly_ (thank you Volstagg), and she falls onto it, lighting a candle and reaching for her book once she lands.

 

She’s halfway through the third-to-last chapter when there’s a slight knock on the door, and she looks up and sees Leah. “Just letting you know, I’m going now,” the girl says softly. “It will be easier to return to my place of residence while Asgardia slumbers.”

 

“Hang on, I’ll come with you.”

 

“That is not necessary.”

 

“Basic safety precautions. If anyone--,” _Heimdall_ , “sees you out alone, they’re going to ask questions. If they see you with me--.”

 

“They will still ask questions,” Leah reminds her, her eyebrows tilting up in a way that tells Steph Leah’s amused.

 

“But they’ll ask me, while you get away.” She jumps off the bed, shrugging on her coat and puling on her hat. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

 

“Hm,” Leah waits while Steph blows out the candle (okay, leaving a light on is nice, but she really doesn’t want to come back to discover the tower’s on fire), and they walk down the stairs and out of the tower again.

 

They’re free of the palatial crush of buildings when Steph says, “So, there was an ulterior motive to me walking you back.”

 

“I suspected,” Leah says blandly.

 

Scratch that. Leah isn’t Damian under Babs’ tutelage; she’s Spock and Babs’ lovechild.

 

“Hela’s...goddess of the dead, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What exactly does that entail?”

 

Leah’s brows furrow slightly. “She keeps the records of the dead and is the mistress of the souls left to her care.”

 

“Records of the dead meaning...”

 

“Everyone has ever died or will finds their names in her records. Every race recognized in the Nine Realms as having sapience and sentience—both are required—can find their name in her books. She keeps separate records for each race—mortals, Aesir, giants, demons, etc—and if you petition her and work out a bargain, she will wipe your name from her records, granting you momentary immortality. Eventually, she will add your name again, but freeing yourself momentarily is usually all that being wants.” They stop outside Leah’s cave; she summons a handful of green flame as she peers at Steph. “What is the purpose to this query?”

 

She shrugs. “I hear things around here. There’s this perception that mortals don’t listen much, and maybe that’s true, but it means I pick up all the gossip. But it also seems like resurrection’s pretty common, and I wanted to know how that works.”

 

“If you were once dead, Hela can bring you back to the living,” Leah says reluctantly. “But she doesn’t like to do it.”

 

“Nah, I get that.” Steph stops. “Could you transport me—to Hel, I mean?”

 

Leah’s eyes are a lot more suspicious. “For what purpose?”

 

“I want to ask Hela something.”

 

“What?” Leah’s defensive tone reminds Steph that this girl is in fact Hela’s handmaiden.

 

“I would request that she check her records for me.”

 

“For you, or for Loki?”

 

She snorts. “Loki doesn’t like Hela much. I doubt he’s thought of this.”

 

Leah sighs. “Fair enough. Now?”

 

“No, probably not. Tomorrow, though? I think?”

 

“That could be done,” Leah tilts her head. “I will need to alert her to your request before I send you, though.”

 

“Fair enough. If she’s okay with it, I’d like it to be tomorrow morning?” She grimaces. “I have sparring practice with Sif in the afternoon.”

 

“That could be...entertaining.”

 

“Yes, pit the mortal against the _goddess of war_. Brilliant plan. So brilliant, I’m falling over myself congratulating everyone around for thinking of it.”

 

“Good night, Stephanie,” Leah says pointedly.

 

“Good night, Leah.”

 

It’s as she’s walking back that the lights of what is clearly a torch heading towards her distract her. She stops as the light resolves itself into a guard—the same guard who cautioned her about staying in front of Odin after pissing him off. “My lady Stephanie,” the guard bows. “The All-Mother would speak to you at your earliest convenience.”

 

“Meaning now, right?” she sighs.

 

The guard’s lips turn up in a small smile. “I believe so.”

 

“Thanks, dude,” she turns to go. “Actually,” she turns on her heel. “What’s your name?”

 

“That matters not. The All-Mother is waiting.”

 

She sighs again. “Oh fine.”

 

She jogs towards the palace, up the steps to the monstrous throne room. All of them are waiting for her, and yeah, that’s not intimidating at _all_.

 

You can do this, Steph. You slapped Batman—no matter how much guilt you felt over it later.

 

“Daughter of Brown,” Freyja’s voice rings out across the room. “Thank you for attending to our invitation.”

 

“Invitation? Oh, I’m sorry, I thought it was a summons.”

 

_Not_ the time to be snarky, Steph.

 

Freyja stands up, and like everybody in Asgard, she’s tall as hell. “Your cheek does you credit, but it will not serve in this instance.”

 

Steph waits. They’ll get to the point.

 

It’s Gaea who speaks up next. Her child is asleep in her arm, and she gets up off the throne to walk to her, circling her carefully. “Do you miss your family, daughter of Brown?”

 

Focus, Brown. “I miss my mother,” she says steadily. “My father, not so much.”

 

“Siblings? Cousins?” Gaea pauses long enough for Steph’s stomach to knot. “Children?”

 

Unbidden, her mouth goes dry. “Excuse me?”

 

Gaea stands by Freyja on the dais. “You were a mother once, were you not?”

 

Focus, Brown, focus. “I got pregnant once, and I gave her—the child up for adoption. No, I wasn’t a mother. I was just...the carrier.”

 

“That is a harsh view on the matter,” Gaea observes, cradling her baby’s head with her hand.

 

“I didn’t want the kid, but I didn’t want to get an abortion,” she juts her chin out. “Are we here to talk about my bad life decisions? ‘Cause, really, in comparison, getting pregnant and giving the baby up for adoption is actually on the bottom of that list.”

 

“We understand that you are paying a blood-debt to Loki,” Freyja’s subject change could be a little more graceful. “Why depart your realm?”

 

“I’m pretty sure you already know the answer to that,” her veins are humming with nervous energy. Usually, when she feels like this, she does stupid things like slap Batman.

 

“Explain it in your own words,” Iðunn urges. Out of the three, she’s the only still sitting, one leg crossed over another, and she’s clearly entertained by the proceedings.

 

“There was a coming cataclysm,” she recites, bitterness giving the words an edge she didn’t intend to communicate to them. “And my friends and family were starting to forget me. So I left, knowing that it’s better to exist in a different dimension knowing that I’ll be able to come back than if I disappear into Limbo completely. Besides, I _do_ owe Loki a debt. He saved my life—Older!Loki, obviously. And that made a lot of good things possible for me, so I owe him.” She crosses her arm, leaning on her right leg. “And I hate owing people.”

 

“So now you protect him in his form as a child,” Freyja muses. “Are you aware of what we and Loki spoke of yesterday?”

 

“Yes,” she bites out. “I do. And for the record, _All-Mother_ , blackmailing a kid to do your bidding because it’s politically expedient for you is not okay.”

 

“He is not a child. He is Loki.”

 

She feels her fists ball up. “ _No_ , he’s a child. Whomever,” thanks, Babs, “he may have been, he is a child with a child’s outlook.”

 

“What do you recommend, hm?” Gaea inquires. “Treat Loki as a child?”

 

“That would be a start.”

 

“Except he is far more intelligent and crafty than most children his age. Surely you in all your wisdom, “ yeah, there’s the sarcasm, “can concede to that.” When Steph nods—reluctantly!—Gaea continues, “So how it treating him like any standard ten-year-old going to help him?”

 

She glares in response. “There is no one way to treat and raise a kid. He’s an intelligent kid, but still a kid. And you’re going to assist in his ostracism just to keep him in a place where he can be easily manipulated?”

 

“It will be a change for him,” Freyja remarks. “And he _is_ Loki, merely aged down. He has certainly fooled you, daughter of Brown, if you are so willing to defend him to us, when your presence lies on such shaky legal ground.”

 

“As far as I am aware, blood-debts are pretty solid legal ground,” she grinds out.

 

“To fight side-by-side as comrades in battle, yes. To defend a child—to defend _Loki_ —over such a prolonged period of time in a place that is unfamiliar to you, in a place that you, forgive me, do not belong? _That_ is what creates the shaky legal ground,” Freyja taps her fingers on the top of the throne. “A case could be made.”

 

“So now you’re threatening me in exchange for...what?” Steph’s glower increases. She learned more than tech, parkour, and how to make specialty Batarangs from Babs.

 

“Not a threat,” Iðunn says mildly. “Just...reminding you of your position.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Report on his activities to us,” Freyja says.

 

“No,” Steph retorts. “I won’t. I’m his friend, I’m his protector—practically Secret Service, only without the suits and earpieces. And guns. What he gets up to is his business.”

 

“Loki does not have friends, he has pawns.”

 

“Then clearly we’re talking about two separate people, because that kid is more lonely than almost anyone I’ve ever met. His two connections,” forgive me, Leah, “are me and Tanarus, and I’m not about to turn on his confidences just because you don’t trust him. Find someone else to spy on him.”

 

“Your defense of him does you credit but—“

 

“No. There is no ‘but,’ here. He’s lonely, and feels remorse about things he _did not do_. Your people continuing to treat him like the scum of the earth aren’t helping matters. He’s not a villain, but he could be if you all continue to treat him badly!”

 

“And you would know this from personal experience?” So Iðunn can sound low and deadly. Keep that in mind, Steph.

 

Her shoulders straighten. “Yeah, actually, I do. And I’m not rushing to the door to see it happen again to someone else.”

 

“Lost mortal, whose own mother has forgotten her, whose daughter has ceased to exist, whose lover is abandoned to the abyss,” Gaea sounds considering while Steph’s insides freeze over.

 

Freyja glances at Gaea, and then she stares at Steph again. “Very well. Daughter of— _Lady_ Stephanie. We will adjourn, but remain aware of your precarious position in Asgardia.” She inclines her head. “You are dismissed.”

 

Say nothing, Steph. Say nothing while you leave the room.

 

Once the huge doors close behind her, she leans against a pillar and just—breathes. She tries not to get angry very often, but this.

 

Asgardia is getting to be too much.

 

She breathes in and out, before disappearing back to the tower. With any luck, she may get a couple of hours of sleep before checking in with Leah in the morning.

 

\--

 

The following morning, she joins Leah at the cave (oddly, that sounds like a club her fellow Gotham U students would frequent on Friday nights—“Ladies and gentleman, I present, for one night only, Bat and the Men, at _The Cave!”_ complete with a bat symbol lit up in neon), who informs her that Hela is more than amenable to meeting with her that morning, and behold, teleportation.

 

Leah actually says that. “Behold, teleportation.”

 

Teleportation still feels like a Portkey on steroids, and it still leaves her feeling sick to her stomach, but she _thinks_ the nausea isn’t so bad this time.

 

Whatever. She’s still glad she hasn’t eaten breakfast yet.

 

Tyr is waiting for her, and traces of amusement cross his face as she stumbles to the nearest pillar and clutches it like it’s her only defense in this world. I love this post, she thinks blearily. “Lady Stephanie, my lady Hela is in the garden.”

 

“There’s a garden here?” She shouldn’t sound so surprised.

 

“My lady has to eat.”

 

Her legs feel like muscle and bone again, not jello, so she stands up properly and smiles at Tyr. “Hi, Tyr. How’s Hel?”

 

“Well enough,” Tyr replies, all traces of amusement gone as he offers her his arm. She takes it—hey, helping to save the world from _the_ personification of Fear makes strange allies (she thinks she read that somewhere)—and he leads her through the palace. She’s as hopelessly lost as she was two weeks ago, especially since they’re heading deeper into the palace than they did during the whole Fear thing debacle.

 

They stop outside of a greenhouse (no, seriously, _there’s a greenhouse in Hel_ ) and Tyr bows respectfully. “She is waiting for you in there.”

 

“Thank you, Tyr.”

 

“Thanks are not necessary.”

 

“They are to me, so thank you.”

 

Tyr has a shade of a smile on his face, and he disappears to do...whatever the Generals of Hel do when they’re not jumping at their lady’s bidding. Steph pries open the door and steps into a humid, muggy mess of air, closing the door and stripping off her coat and scarf, regretting her tall boots already. Draping the coat and scarf over her arm, she picks her way past the plants. “Hela?” she calls, trying not to disturb the plants while _really_ trying not to think about another woman back home who is overly fond of greenhouses.

 

“I’m here,” she hears, and she works her way towards the sound of Hela’s voice.

 

Hela is in a different dress (thank _god_ ), and she looks...satisfied as she bathes a strange plant in a mist that glows green. “Greetings, Lady Stephanie,” she says without looking at her, peering at the plant. “Are you surprised to discover I have a greenhouse?”

 

“It crossed my mind,” she admits, leaning against a stone table. She jumps when a plant lays its fronds against her arm.

 

“Behave,” Hela says absently, and the plant wilts slightly, allowing Steph to lean back against the lip of the table, eyeing the plant warily. “My Greek counterpart also has a garden.”

 

_Greek counterpart_... “Oh, Persephone? But isn’t she, like, the goddess of spring?”

 

“She’s actually the goddess of rebirth,” Hela sprays the original plant one last time for good measure, before moving onto the next one. “As you may understand, current political power thought at the time believed that having the Queen of the Underworld being the goddess of rebirth was a little too...not done. So they designated her the goddess of spring, because spring is a time of rebirth. Although it is completely apt having the Queen of the Underworld being the goddess of rebirth. It is all about reading between the lines.” Hela _finally_ looks at her. “Leah mentioned something about you asking to see my records? You should understand that is not something I easily allow access to.”

 

She shifts. The plant lays its fronds on her arm again, but Hela isn’t paying attention. “I understand this is an...unusual request.”

 

“It is,” Hela says flatly.

 

“But since the rebirth of Tanarus, he has been acting...strange. And Loki is certain this man is not his brother.”

 

“Are you here for Loki, then?”

 

“To be honest, I don’t think Loki thought of asking you. But since I found out that you keep records of the dead, if Tanarus _is_ his brother, his name with be in the Aesir books, won’t it?”

 

Hela stares at her for a moment. “That is...well-thought.”

 

Steph blinks. “Thanks?”

 

“And if his name _is_ on the Aesir lists?”

 

“Then if he isn’t Loki’s brother, he will have gone to great lengths to cover his tracks,” Steph shrugs. “But if this is something _Loki_ didn’t think of...”

 

“It is likely Tanarus did not think of this as well.” Hela considers this. “What will you give me in exchange? This will not be free.”

 

“I don’t know what favors I can do for, and I don’t have a lot of influence,” Steph replies, slightly wary. “I can tell the All-Mother that you assisted me, though.”

 

Hela coughs slightly. “Ah yes, the thanks of the Aesir and Asgardians are exactly what I wish for.”

 

That’s...telling.

 

“I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Hela puts down the spray can, gesturing for Steph to follow her out of the greenhouse. “Given your...unique position. Speaking of, has the All-Mother offered to give you an Asgardian wardrobe yet?”

 

“No. I don’t think they like me much.”

 

Hela coughs again, but it sounds more like a snort. “That does not surprise me.”

 

“Why would they give me an Asgardian wardrobe?”

 

“Uniformity,” Hela’s voice is bitter. “They tend to want everyone to look the same.”

 

“But Asgardia is playing host to every other race in the Nine Realms,” she’s confused. She has _no idea_ what the political structure or the issues at play are. She should really change that.

 

“Lip service. The Frost Giants were correct when they accused the All-Mother of ruling all Nine Realms from Asgardia, but because Frost Giants—despite their name—are easy to rile, it is easy to vilify them, or place them in a position where they can be vilified. Certainly the All-Mother is better than Odin, but given the bar, it is not hard to rise above it.”

 

“So, they’d want me to look like them? Why?”

 

“By allowing you to stay, they give the appearance of diversity. By having you dress like them, it is within the safe margins. You give them political cachet to what they are claiming to do.”

 

“So why are they reminding me of my shaky legal ground?” Steph pauses to rub the heels of her palms into her eyes. “Ugh, I hate politics.”

 

“Truly?” Hela looks surprised.

 

“Yeah. I don’t have the right turn of mind to play that game, for all I love _Game of Thrones_.”

 

“Tell me what you do know,” Hela invites her, throwing open the doors to the library.

 

“There are major tensions in Asgardia because there are other races who are pissed that they’re still taking orders—supposedly—from Aesir peoples. In the meantime, at least, more relevant to me, Loki is being ostracized by like _everybody_ , and the All-Mother is blackmailing him in exchange for use of his skill set while doing nothing to help his ostracism. Oh, and apparently my condoned presence is legally shaky, since I’m a glorified babysitter rather than a comrade-in-arms.” She sighs.  “Added to that, a lot of the issues going on are issues that are going way over my head because I simply don’t know the history, and I can’t really read the language to discover what I don’t know.”

 

“I believe _that_ is the greater issue, rather than playing politics.” Hela pulls down a text, flips through it, and puts it back, searching the titles. “If you assist Loki in exposing Tanarus as a fraud— _if_ he’s a fraud—your capital goes up. _Loki’s_ capital goes up. Since you’re associated with Loki, your capital will be lower than if it was, perhaps, Sif, but there _will_ be capital. The All-Mother will have to publicly acknowledge you as an asset. Which comes with its own problems—they may require you to prove your skills publicly, but acknowledging you as an asset is certainly better than threatening your legal status behind closed doors.”

 

“So you’re essentially saying this could be a way to gain influence?”

 

“Succinctly: yes.”

 

Hela is still searching for titles. Steph kind of wants to know why. She seems to find a book she likes, because her face lights up as she pages through it. “So...will you assist me?”

 

Hela snaps the book shut. “Of course.  That was never in any doubt.”

 

“If it’s worth anything, Loki’s doing his best to protect Leah,” Steph offers.

 

“I thought he might,” she can’t read Hela’s face right now.

 

Maybe that’s for the best.

 

Hela opens a door that Steph hadn’t seen before, and she follows Hela through it, gaping at the volumes on the shelves stack from floor to ceiling. Each bookshelf is divided by a ribbon—she spots blue, pink, green, purple, red, and black before Hela gets her attention by walking to the podium in the middle of the room, where an inkwell with a steel-gray quill rests. Hela pulls down a volume marked with green ribbon, pulling it onto the podium and begins to turn the pages, clearly looking for the name.

 

“That quill...it looks like the Twilight Blade,” Steph remarks, wandering over to Hela.

 

“It is based on it,” Hela says absently, running her finger down the page. “That is what I use to write in or write out various names in the records of the dead. The ink is blood.”

 

“Does it matter whose blood it is?”

 

Hela looks at her. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“Well, Loki used Leah’s blood with the Twilight Blade. Does it matter whose blood it is that’s used?”

 

Hela shakes her head. “No. It just has to be blood.”

 

“Huh.” She turns, walking around the room. The record books are large. They remind her of encyclopedias, actually, but the covers are roughly a foot and half long. She doesn’t touch them, but she imagines she can hear whispers coming from them.

 

“His name is not in the most recent Aesir records,” Hela announces, closing the book. “Give me a moment.” Steph turns to look at her as Hela spreads her arms and growls, _“Tanarus_.”

 

The books begin to shudder in their shelves, and Hela is waiting for something, but Steph has no idea what it is. When nothing happens and the books settle, Hela’s face is priceless. “His name is not in _any_ book of mine,” she informs Steph.

 

“How is that possible?”

 

“It may be an alias,” Hela crosses her arms and scowls at the green-bound bookshelves. “Names are important. How you think of yourself informs your name. He may claim he is Tanarus, but his true name is something else. Either way, he is _not_ Aesir. They value their true name too much to rely on an alias.”

 

“Thank you,” Steph says honestly, offering her hand to Hela. The Queen of the Underworld looks at it oddly for a moment, before clasping it. Like before, Hela’s touch is cold and sears her to her bones, but the handshake seems to calm the goddess.

 

“I may have need of your services in the future,” Hela says formally, leading her out of the room. Steph glances behind her—the door to the records room disappears. “I will send through Leah when that time comes. Tyr will see you out.”

 

“I have no issue telling the All-Mother of your help,” she offers in response as Tyr promptly opens the door. “They do seem sincere in breaking the cycle that has characterized your history up to now.”

 

“The Aesir do not like to acknowledge death. I believe there is a mortal quote about life and death—something about life asking death why people love life and hate death, and death replies that life is a beautiful lie, and death is a painful truth. So it is with the Aesir. They are aware they must surrender to me eventually, but they prefer to say not today.”

 

Steph stares. “Do _you_ watch Game of Thrones?”

 

Hela smirks slightly. “Good day, Lady Stephanie.”

 

Tyr offers her his arm again, and they walk in silence back to the front of the palace. As the portal shimmers into view, Steph turns to thank Tyr again, who says from the corner of his mouth, “Hela has promised to prolong George R. R. Martin’s life if he promises to tell her how the series ends.”

 

“That’s _cheating_ ,” Steph points a finger at him.

 

“She is Queen of the Underworld. Whoever said she has to play fairly?” With that, Tyr gently pushes her through the portal and she lands in Leah’s cave, trying not to vomit everywhere.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“Your mistress _cheats_ ,” Steph gets up carefully, dusting off her hands and her knees.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“According to Tyr, your mistress has promised to prolong the life of George RR Martin in exchange for discovering the end of the _A Song of Ice and Fire_ series.”

 

“Well, of course,” Leah doesn’t even sound surprised. Damn her. “That book series and accompanying mortal entertainment are some of the few mortal creations my mistress legitimately enjoys. It can be tedious, running Hel. Should my lady remain bored forever?”

 

Steph sticks her tongue out at her in response. Why yes, she is in fact a responsible adult.

 

Leah stares, before rolling her eyes. “Loki has gone to Broxton for the day. I believe it to be for the best.”

 

“Probably,” Steph acknowledges. “Besides, I have _sparring_. _Such_ fun.”

 

“I did enjoy the strange moving pictures of singing lions yesterday,” Leah says, almost shyly, as Steph starts to leave the cave.

 

Steph stops, and looks at Leah. She grins. “Oh believe me, the singing lions are just the tip of the Disney iceberg.”

 

Leah bows. “I look forward to it.”

 

Steph practically skips back to Asgardia, thinking of the next films she could get from the small library in Broxton. She and Sif are supposed to meet in the eating hall, so she starts to head that way. Her senses are thrumming in the way Bruce taught her to listen to, and she’s definitely feeling that something isn’t right.

 

When she sees why, she presses a hand to her mouth to keep from gasping aloud.

 

Tanarus has Idris-Elba Heimdall on the ground, growling at him. Sif’s across the room, and she looks startled with her hand in on her sword hilt. “Am I interrupting anything?” Steph says archly in the Bat-Voice, but inwardly, she agrees fully with Loki now. This is not his brother.

 

They all look at her, and Tanarus lets go of Idris-Elba Heimdall. “You didn’t see anything,” he growls at her as Idris-Elba Heimdall gets up, straightening his tunic. His eyes are directing pure hate at Tanarus.

 

“Oh? And how will you persuade me otherwise?”

 

“Wench, I will--.”

 

“Tanarus, enough. We’re done here,” Sif moves around him, looking up at Idris-Elba Heimdall, who shakes his head slightly before moving back Steph and is gone.

 

“We’re not—“

 

“I say we are,” Sif snaps. “Lady Stephanie, are you prepared?”

 

She glances at Tanarus, who is staring at the two of them with—wow, haven’t seen that look since I last saw Dad. “Yeah. I am.”

 

“Excellent,” Sif says crisply, and leads the way to the training grounds.

 

“Hey, um, Lady Sif?” she’s not exactly sure what the honorifics are (she can’t exactly be bothered with them in her day-to-day), but it works because Sif pauses to look at her. “Is there anything I can do?”

 

“Teach Tanarus not to be a boor?” Sif’s smile is sharp and mirthless. “I believe we will leave that task to the All-Mother. I was not in any danger, nor was Heimdall, but thank you for your concern.”

 

And that should be it, but Steph grew up in an abusive household. “For the record, I’m willing to fight him. For, like, you, and Heimdall. You’ve been very welcoming.”

 

“I appreciate the sentiment, but honestly, I am not certain if he can be defeated by a mortal,” Sif shrugs. “We will get you some practice clothes. Your denim and cotton will not assist.”

 

Steph looks down at her clothes. “Yeah, probably not.”

 

\--

 

When Loki crosses the threshold to his room, exhausted from the day’s events, he spots Stephanie sitting on his windowsill, reading. She has a small flashlight tucked under her chin to illuminate the pages, and her blonde hair spills from her ponytail to cascade over the shoulders of her lilac sweater.

 

He thinks for a moment, _she is beautiful_ , and then he knows he is tired.

 

“Hey kid,” she tells him, not looking up from her book as she turns the page. “Have a good day?”

 

“No,” he says instinctively, and then he sighs, tugging off his circlet and tossing it towards his bed. “Yes. Kind of. Where were you?”

 

“Hel, this morning, and then sparring with Sif this afternoon.” Now she turns her head to look at him, and there is a gleam of satisfaction in her blue eyes.

 

“You went to Hel _willingly_?”

 

“Hela could answer a question I had.”

 

“Which was—what, precisely?”

 

He thinks he can guess, thinks it has to do with her missing lover, for the way Stephanie misses Cass ( _Cassandra_ , he corrects himself, this mortal way of nicknaming makes sense in a way but if you give your children beautiful names, why shorten them?) is not dissimilar to the ways he has seen people miss spouses, lovers, soulmates.

 

But she surprises him. She keeps doing that.

 

“I wanted to see if Tanarus’ name would be in her records.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

She swings her legs over the windowsill, perching on the lip. The small flashlight keeps her place in her book. “Look, if what I got from Leah was correct, anyone who has ever died, will ever die or have been reborn has their names in her books. The only way your name is not in her books is if you bargain with her directly. Tanarus does not have his name in her books—in _any_ of her books.”

 

“Then...Tanarus is a pseudonym,” he frowns. “So then...”

 

“He is not who he _alleges_ to be,” Stephanie is grinning, her blue eyes alight with good news—good news she gathered for _him_.

 

“What do you owe Hela in exchange?”

 

“An unnamed favor.”

 

“That is not wise,” he reminds her. “Hela has been an enemy of Asgard for quite some time. You would be in a strategic location to—“

 

“According to a hell of a lot of people, _you_ are an enemy of Asgard. Give her a chance, okay? She didn’t have to help me.” She tilts her head at him. “You look exhausted. What’s _your_ good news?”

 

“I found Mjolnir, and got the Silver Surfer on my side,” he scrubs his eyes tiredly. “Mjolnir awoke and flew off somewhere. The Silver Surfer followed it, and I waited and waited but neither returned, so I finally came home. I’m going to bathe. Will you wait?”

 

“Of course,” Stephanie picks up her book and turns back onto the windowsill, her back against the window frame. She clicks the flashlight on. “Go do what you need to do.”

 

He does so, and when he is done, he re-enters his room, donning only a soft tunic and equally soft leggings. His damp hair is sprawled across his forehead. During the interim, Stephanie lit the fire and returned to the windowsill, only now Ikol is perched on her shoulder, reading along with her.

 

He freezes for a moment before relaxing, draping a robe around him as he sits against the wall. “Stephanie?”

 

“Do you feed birds here or something?” Stephanie’s question startles him and he jumps.

 

“Beg pardon?”

 

“I haven’t seen you lay any birdseed out, but this magpie is completely comfortable with me. Do you feed him?”

 

“Uh...yes,” he manages. Ikol is glaring at him with his beady eyes, but he doesn’t understand why Stephanie thinks Ikol just suddenly appeared. He’s been here this entire time.

 

Stephanie looks out the window. “And now he’s just flown off. Typical.”

 

Ikol...is still perched on her shoulder. He doesn’t understand. “Stephanie, I--.”

 

“So you awoke your brother’s weapon and off it went. Who’s the Silver Surfer again?”

 

Not for the first time, he is reminded that she is a still a stranger here. “He was the messenger of Galactus before switching sides. Of a sort. It’s quite complicated—if you learned that Tanarus was an pseudonym, why not alert the All-Mother?”

 

She points at him. “I am able to follow complicated stories, kid. I went to tell them after I sparred with Sif—who kicked my ass royally, thankyouverymuch, but it was a workout I haven’t had in a while—but the guard was very polite and told me they didn’t particularly want to see me at the moment, but he would be happy to carry a written message to them from me with lots of love,” it takes Stephanie twisting her face slightly for his tired mind to realize that last sentence is a joke, “and I’ve been waiting to hear back.”

 

“What was in the missive?”

 

“That I have had some new information regarding Tanarus from a pretty flawless source, considering, and I am at their leisure,” she twists her lips into that strange smile again. “Babs and I watched a lot of movies together at the end. There was a lot of Jane Austen involved. And chocolate. Chocolate plus Jane Austen equals many many Good Things. Take note, kid.”

 

“I shall endeavor to do so.”

 

“So, here we are.” She jumps down from the windowsill, tucking her flashlight into her jean pocket and putting her book on the side, one corner turned down to mark her place. “I think you should get some sleep.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You’re emotionally compromised, and you’re not a Vulcan, so no choke-holds from you to me to recognize that, but as your elder, at least age-wise, I declare that you are tired and emotionally distressed and sleep will help.”

 

“I am exhausted,” he allows, “but if I sleep...If I sleep, I do not sleep well.”

 

“Nightmares?”

 

And _oh_ how he hates that word. “Yes.” He breathes in and out quickly, before continuing, “I remember Thor’s name and his hammer, but I cannot remember what he looked like. Last night I dreamed of a shape in a dark cloak coming for me, growling _Loki_ , and I was afraid, because I did not remember.”

 

He takes a breath and continues. “And it is not as simple as that mortal show _Doctor Who_ , which inspires so much creativity and tears. Remembering someone doesn’t bring them back. Citing a nursery rhyme and crying onto a book does not bring someone back.”

 

There’s a warm, heavy weight on his shoulders—oh, Stephanie sat down and wrapped her arm around him. “I miss him, and I do not even remember what he looks like.”

 

“Let’s put you in bed,” Stephanie says softly, wrapping her free arm under his knees and lifting him. Carrying him to his bed is a task far harder than it should be, given all of the items and objects he has lying around, but she manages it valiantly, and her hands are gentle as she places him on his bed and pulls the covers over him. Ikol caws at him from the windowsill, but Stephanie blocks his view of the troublesome bird.

 

“Stephanie?”

 

“Yes, Loki?”

 

“Stay? Tell me a story of your land.”

 

“Any particular genre you’re in the mood for?”

 

He leans back into his bedding. “One with a happy ending.”

 

“Fair enough.” The story she tells he doesn’t follow—the names are repeated but slightly unfamiliar—Dick, Babs, Damian, Roulette, Riot, Jordanna, Francesco, but it lulls him into a deep, if not entirely comforting, sleep.

 

\--

 

The morning dawns bright and clear—and that, Steph knows, is a bad sign. Sure, bad shit happens on stormy days, but it’s the sunny ones, the ones which seemingly have the most going for it, that end up being complete shitballs.

 

_Wow_ did Loki’s “it isn’t that easy” monologue hit home last night. It made her wonder, at that moment, if she could have stayed because someone remembered her. But everyone who could have—even her _mother_ —forgot.

 

Loki skipped out earlier, because he and the Silver Surfer (who, by the way, is silver and has a surfboard. Go figure. Though she can’t exactly critique him, ‘cause, y’know, _Batgirl_ ) had something to do.

 

She’s just waiting for the summons to the All-Mother to come through. She has a feeling it’ll be this morning, within the next two hours. She just needs something to occupy her time until then.

 

She hadn’t been much of a reader back home—sure, she read the truly _boring_ books for school, and she’d read Harry Potter and she got through the first three chapters of the _Hunger Games_ before it gave her flashbacks that made her puke—but here, where she doesn’t really have the touchstone for film (it’s nice to see that Disney exists in _all_ dimensions) or TV, it’s like reading is the only entertainment she has.

 

So...she reads. Fantasy epics that make her laugh (which, surprisingly, exist), random titles that she picks up only because it caught her eye, etc etc. She’s about waist-deep in a truly excellent historical fictional universe, and she’s about to get to the part where one of the people ‘drowned’ to death (more like he was helped, _geez_ ) when the Summons arrives.

 

Which is totally deserving of the extra capital letter.

 

It’s not brought by the guard she’s created a kinda-rapport with. It’s brought by freaking Idris-Elba Heimdall himself, who looks majorly put out. “Your presence is wanted in the Throne Room, along with the Lady Sif, Tanarus the Strong, and the Man of Iron.”

 

He’s talking in that clipped way Babs does sometimes, when she can’t program the world to her will. Steph knows not to mess with her in that mood, so she applies that same tact to Idris-Elba Heimdall. He’s walking really quickly and she matches him, although since Idris-Elba Heimdall is freaking tall as hell and she just...isn’t, the ‘matching’ quickly becomes ‘jogging’ which becomes...’running.’

 

Well, _that_ escalated quickly.

 

When they get there, Iron Man is speaking quietly with the All-Mother. Tanarus is brooding by the corner as Sif ignores him, listening to the All-Mother and Iron Man. When she gets there, all conversation stops.

 

“Good Heimdall, thank you,” Freyja says quietly. “Man of Iron, you have our most sincere gratitude. I am sure the builders need you present to lift Asgardia to the skies—“

 

_Shit her plans to get Leah and Loki out of Asgardia every so often just became more complicated._

“—we have a matter to attend to here,” Freyja scrutinizes Steph, and yep, haven’t felt that way since Bruce fired her.

 

Yelled at by Odin? She can deal. Being looked up and down by Freyja? Oh, hi mom feels.

 

Once Iron Man leaves—and yep, he gets out of there pretty damn quickly, can probably sense the tension like nothing else—Tanarus straightens and Sif looks wary.

 

“We read your missive,” oh god, they’re starting with Iðunn. Iðunn’s the _nice_ one. “And we must admit, we were puzzled by your veiled allegations. Can you shed light on them?”

 

Crap, Steph, _think_. Think about that Shakespeare class you took last semester. “Well, as I am sure the Lady Sif is aware, Loki feels that Tanarus is, um, not his brother.”

 

“The boy is _Loki_ , must we take his accusations seriously?” Tanarus rumbles, and he looks _so_ smug, and she wants nothing more than to hit _him_ in the face. With, like, a brick. Or maybe a frying pan. Heh. Frying Pan of Doom.

 

“Hold,” Freyja orders, holding up a hand. “Lady Stephanie, continue.” Sif shifts at the honorific, and so she’s _Lady_ Stephanie, now, huh? Maybe yelling at the All-Mother was good for something besides offering her (really pretty, she swears, it looks better attached) neck on a chopping block (what, she’s seen _The Tudors_ , okay).

 

“And since it has plagued Loki,” ooh, good word choice Steph, “a lot, he and I have been working through separate, um, avenues to find out why that is. He’s currently with the Silver Surfer, and they awoke Mjolnir yesterday,” Sif looks like she’s been thrown, that has to be good, “and I went to Hela yesterday.”

 

“A mortal...went to Hel?” Freyja’s voice drips with incredulity and condescension. “How?”

 

She licks her lips unconsciously. “I don’t remember.”

 

God, _keep them away from Leah_. That’s all you need right now, Steph.

 

“So you somehow went to Hel, where mortals are not welcome, to ask a private query of its ruler,” Freyja snorts. “Your tale is becoming ludicrous, Lady Stephanie.”

 

“Look, All-Mother, Hela’s not that bad—at least, not to me,” she frowns. “I think I amuse her, which, story of my life, that explains how I’ve lived through some stuff.  And she was willing to help me, because I asked her if Tanarus’ name was in her records.”

 

Tanarus suddenly looks _really_ shifty, and _now_ the All-Mother is interested. Also, Idris-Elba Heimdall has tensed. “And the result was?”

 

And here comes the truth-bomb. “He doesn’t exist. Anywhere. And he hasn’t bargained with her to wipe his names from the books. And she checked—all of them. I watched her.”

 

“She let you into the room of records?” Gaea sounds flummoxed. “In exchange for _what_?”

 

“That’s classified,” Steph sys pointedly. “I’m pretty sure it won’t hurt Asgardia, though. But Tanarus is _not_ his name,” she points at Tanarus in the shadows, and he’s gripping his axe with deadly intent. “Because Tanarus isn’t on any book she has.”

 

“Treachery,” Tanarus hisses. “She is a mortal in collusion with Loki and Hela. How much can she be trusted?”

 

“More than he who would attack Heimdall,” Sif growls right back, and oh hey, ladyboner.

 

She can’t help it—she has a type. Sif may speak a _lot_ more than Cass, but she’s got Babs’ authority and Cass’ lethality, and hey, she’s always been attracted to people who may not be good for her.

 

Not that she was attracted to Babs. Much.

 

Just, y’know, the light in the Batcave could be _really_ flattering.

 

Tanarus barks out a laugh, but he looks _really_ nervous. “All-Mother, even Loki has managed to infect the Lady Sif with his lies!”

 

“Except Loki has never spoken to me about this issue,” Sif raps out, “and neither has the Lady Stephanie. This is the first I have heard of it, but I am _not_ your wife, and I never have been. You are not the one I mourned.”

 

“How is he maintaining this illusion, then?” Freyja seems determined to be the objective one.

 

With a _whoosh_ , (no seriously how can Idris-Elba Heimdall move that fast), Idris-Elba Heimdall is pointing a sword at Tanarus’ throat. “Speak, traitor,” Idris-Elba Heimdall rumbles, and _wow_ , second ladyboner in the same amount of time.

 

(Everyone on Asgardia is just too freaking pretty. That’s the problem.

 

Man, she misses Cass).

 

Tanarus snarls. “Attack _now_ , my brethren!” There’s an answering rumble and lots of shouting. The All-Mother draw their swords, but Tanarus is already leaping for them after shoving Idris-Elba Heimdall to the side.

 

Steph throws two of the Batarangs she conceals under her jacket and gets him to duck, allowing the All-Mother time to react. Sif draws her own blade and Idris-Elba Heimdall looks ready to murder Tanarus. “Traitor to Asgardia, you dare bring a troll army here?”

 

He...probably doesn’t mean 4chan or Reddit.

 

“Die with the rest of Asgardia!” Tanarus screams, bringing his axe down on Idris-Elba Heimdall’s head.

 

Thankfully, Idris-Elba Heimdall is wearing a helm.

 

Still, when Tanarus brings up his axe to hit Idris-Elba Heimdall again, Steph and Sif jump into action, with Sif kicking him in the stomach. He instinctively bends over, and Sif hits him at the base of his neck (which his _awful_ armor doesn’t cover), sending him sprawling to the ground. Steph follows up with a kick to the nose, and greenish blood spurts out, and she didn’t think Tanarus was a Vulcan. “Is his blood supposed to be that color?”

 

“No,” Sif says grimly. “He is a troll.” She turns around. “All-Mother, Heimdall, you must defend the realm. The Lady Stephanie and I can deal with this traitor.”

 

The All-Mother nods, departing the room in a flash of golden light; Idris-Elba Heimdall follows suit, growling incoherently at the groaning Tanarus as he goes.

 

Which is...kind of hilarious, not going to lie.

 

Tanarus starts to rise, and Sif kicks him—or tries to. He grabs her ankle, throwing her into the opposite wall with a whirling motion. She must have hit her head, because she slides down and doesn’t move. He whirls on Steph, who tenses.

 

Hello, Internal Babs, what have you got for me today?

 

Well, Steph, he’s top-heavy, and fond of that axe. Care to separate the two?

 

That is an _excellent_ idea, Internal Babs.

 

“You ruined my plan,” Tanarus growls.

 

“No, _you_ did that.” She ducks a wild swing, kicking at his knee. He bellows in response, but he stays standing, swinging at her again. “So, what’s your motive? All the supervillains have them—unless, you’re like, a hipster supervillain. Which gives me extra motivation to shut you down.”

 

She punches him in the throat, and he turns in time to catch it on that weird stone he wears. She swears as the stone breaks, because yeah, pretty sure that broke one or two bones in her hand.

 

“My face!” Tanarus wails as green replaces white.

 

“So, I was thinking you were upholding patriarchy, but internalized racism? Dude, why not go see _Wicked_? You’d like the main character—she’s green too! And dealing with a hella lot like what you’re apparently going through,” Steph pauses for a moment, grasping the hilt of the axe so she can kick him the diaphragm. “Though if this dimension doesn’t have _Wicked_ it needs a serious talking-to.”

 

_Ow_ , armor.

 

Tanarus heaves on the hilt and she rolls away, and the force with which he pushed has now lodged the axe blade in the marble of the floor. “Thanks, physics!” She throws two more Batarangs at him as he goes to lift the axe from the floor, pinning his hands to his armor.

 

Look, Batman taught her not to kill. He never said to be _nice_ about it.

 

Tanarus growls at her. “When I get my hands free, you will regret what you have done, wench.”

 

So...that’s Musketeer, or pirate?

 

No clue, Internal Babs.

 

Those Batarangs aren’t going to hold him for long, and the space is too small to use an electrorang or a gooperorang. What are you going to do?

 

Improvise—isn’t that what I’m good at?

 

She grabs the cord that held the stone, feeling her hand twinge— _hard_ —in response as she uses the hilt of the axe of a springboard, jumping onto Tanarus’ shoulders and looping the cord around his throat and pulling.

 

He’s a troll, Internal Babs. I just want to knock him out.

 

Well, Tanarus isn’t getting the memo, because he starts stumbling around, trying to figure out how to dislodge her without his hands, but since she’s on his shoulders (she wonders if this how Jack defeated the Giant—Jack uses Shoulder Choke Hold! It’s super effective!), she can direct him _away_ from the walls.

 

He’s starting to gasp, which is good, because her hands hurt and her knuckles are white from the strain, and she sees Sif come to, sitting up while holding her head. And then she looks over, and her eyes widen with horror, and before Steph can question that look, they’re falling through the open window.

 

But hey, she has her grapple, and she reaches for it, holding onto Tanarus’ collar as she releases the catch.

 

The wrench nearly takes her shoulder out of its socket, and that’s definitely a sensation she could have lived without.

 

Tanarus roars as she tries to get the grapple to catch up to its leading part, but Tanarus—he’s just too _heavy,_ and the armor is slipping from her sweaty hand, and then, just like, he’s gone, falling down at a speed of who knows how much miles per hour.

 

She stares in horror as the catch operates with much more speed and efficiency, because okay, Tanarus may have been a troll but that doesn’t mean she advocates for widespread murder of Reddit users or...

 

_Fuck_.

 

Then she narrowly misses the axe as it spirals down towards the speck, and she realizes that Tanarus can fly, with the axe.

 

So he’s not dead—but he will be coming for her, once he’s settled.

 

Oh goody.

 

She gets up to the window, and Sif helps her inside. “You fell so quickly, I could not—“

 

“It’s okay,” she reassures, rolling her left shoulder carefully. It stings, but she’s had worse. “Batman taught me to always be prepared.” She stores the grapple (catch restored) under her jacket. “What’s going on?”

 

“Karnilla, Queen of the Norns,” Sif says shortly. “I need to protect the All-Mother. I do not know where Loki is in this mess. With any luck, he will have locked himself away.”

 

“I _really_ doubt that _,”_ she massages her hand to relieve some of the pressure, but it’s no good, it’s starting to swell. “And Tanarus isn’t dead.”

 

“You did not slay him?”

 

“Batman taught me not to take a life,” she scans the room, sees if there’s anything she needs to pull from it. There isn’t. “It’s ingrained really deep into my psyche.”

 

Sif looks unhappy, but there is nothing to say. They depart the meeting room at a run, and they overlook the entirety of Asgardia from the balcony.

 

“Shame about the tech,” she mutters, because obviously the first step in any sort of hostile takeover is to set the place on fire. At some point, Sif departs, but she’s scanning for—and there he is, backed up against a wall by some fire-person who’s clearly using the chaos to hide his? Her? _Hir’s_ attempt on a child Loki.

 

She shoots out her grapple, swinging across the main square (hey, did you know that fire can melt rubber soles? _The more you know_!) and landing in front of the fire-person, standing between hir and Loki. “Bitch I will ice you,” she informs hir, palming an icearang and brandishing it threateningly.

 

“I merely sought to protect the boy,” zhe protests.

 

“No you weren’t!” Loki’s muffled voice rings out from behind her.

 

“Scram,” Steph orders. The fire person departs with all due haste. She turns around and looks at Loki. “Well?”

 

“The trolls are coming?”

 

“Sadly not 4chan or Reddit.”

 

“They’d crash our servers, not Asgardia,” Loki argues.

 

“True. Anyway, kid, _why are you in the middle of things_?”

 

He shifts. “We—the Silver Surfer and I—scared an in-disguise Karnilla—“

 

“Queen of the Norns, yeah, got that memo. And I’m pretty sure that uncovering Tanarus’ treachery happened roughly at the same time. Go team us,” she sighs. “Kid, get somewhere safe, because I’m pretty sure that—“

 

Wow, getting hit with like 2 solid tons of troll hurts.

 

Who knew.

 

“Wench,” Tanarus snarls. His hands are bleeding sluggishly and his grip on the hilt of his magic flying axe is slippery—ouch. Don’t think about how he displaced the Batarangs, Steph.

 

“Really? ‘Wench?’ That’s the _best_ you can come up with?” Her head rings from hitting the wall, and she’s trying to get up when he kicks her, solidly, in the stomach, and boom! Through a door and down a set of stairs she goes.

 

We’ve been here before, haven’t we Steph. Only this time we’re not drugged to the gills.

 

She’s definitely broken a rib or two by that _stellar_ landing; thankfully, it doesn’t seem like it’s pierced her lung, but breathing is definitely shallow. She tries to get up again, but he grabs her hair and shoves her face into a wall. Her nose cracks and she feels blood rolling down her throat. Her cheekbone begins to swell, and he drops her.

 

She’s heaving, chest hurting from the combination of throwing up and broken ribs, which is when he gets the lovely idea to kick her in the stomach again. If her ribs weren’t broken before, they are now, and she’s flat on her back. His boot is descending towards her face, and she manages to kick her foot up and over, connecting with that one area of the anatomy that doesn’t seem to change as long as they’re a humanoid male.

 

He bellows, clutching himself.  She rises to her elbows, weakly trying to pull herself backward, but the strength—the strength just isn’t there.

 

“I will kill you, then the All-Mother, and finally the Lady Sif, for refusing me,” he growls out, slowly getting to his feet.

 

“So Sif is the Final Girl in your slasher fantasy,” she chokes out, and god Steph, we never know when to shut up, do we? “Well, I guess it’s only right I’m the first to go,” her vision is wavering, she knows it is, because there’s no way Cass is standing behind Tanarus and frowning at her. “I’m blonde _and_ not a virgin.”

 

Tanarus’ face is swimming out of vision, and she’s about to pass out, and there’s the crack of lightning followed by the ringing of thunder (in a really small space) and then Thor is jumping out of the abyss, hitting Tanarus with Mjolnir and out of the room. “For Asgardia!” he hollers, and two people follow him.

 

“Good for you, champ,” she waves her unbroken hand at him, “Ten points to Gryffindor for spectacular timing.”

 

“Lady Stephanie,” he says worriedly, kneeling by her as his companions—god, she’s going to end up talking like them by the time this adventure is over, isn’t she?— leave and...he’s checking her pulse. She wishes she could appreciate it more. “You are not well.”

 

She laughs, which turns into a cough, which turns into her turning over while grimacing and spitting out a mouthful of blood. “Story of my fucking _life_ , champ. Least I wasn’t shot.” She tries to pat where his face is, but her depth perception is shot. “Getting shot sucks. Don’t try it.”

 

“Lady Stephanie, you are bleeding. Save your energy.”

 

“I mean, at least getting shot in the head by legit human people is better than getting shot by a guy who looks like he got a black Halloween face mask plastered to his face, radiation-style. Also, after getting tortured for three days.” She’s dimly aware of Thor picking her up and lifting her out. “O? Fay Wray. Fay Wray, O.”

 

There’s no answering crackle of the comm. in her ear, and she says, “O? Did the Calculator get you again? Oracle? Cass?”

 

Cass is smiling softly and placing a hand on her forehead. “Sleep, Stephanie. You have done what you can.”

 

“No Cass, I can’t sleep, I’ve prob’ly got a concussion and I know that I shouldn’t sleep with a con...”

 

\--

 

They won’t let Loki into the room where Stephanie sleeps.

 

“They” defined as Iðunn and her handmaidens, “the room” defined as the Healing Halls, and “sleep” is defined as meaning “induced unconsciousness.”

 

Thor is meeting with the All-Mother and he wants his brother badly, but since Thor has to play politics, if briefly, he will be by Stephanie’s side.

 

When Tanarus had come from nowhere and tackled her halfway across Asgardia, fear had clutched his throat. He had sought to follow, but Sif had appeared, fighting a troll and a Fire Giant at the same time, and she ordered him back to his tower. He had not obeyed, merely sought a different way to get to where Tanarus had deposited his protector, but then Thor had appeared, carrying her and she—

 

She looked—

 

_Terrible_.

 

Blood had run from a cut on her cheekbone and her nose. Her lips were split. He could see one hand was swollen and her breathing was shallow. The fighting had momentarily stilled, watching the god of thunder carry a bleeding (broken) mortal girl, and Loki had—

 

Had—

 

He had feared the worst.

 

When Iðunn had appeared, with two of her handmaidens in two, carefully taking Stephanie from him, he had felt hope again, and then Thor did smite Tanarus and with him to galvanize Asgardia’s forces, defeating the trolls and Karnilla was an easy task.

 

Loki had broken away to the Healing Halls, but one of the Handmaidens made him sit outside of the hall, “I will give you word when Iðunn knows her situation, Loki. Let us be.”

 

And so he waits, hours upon hours. Iðunn has yet to appear, but then, there were multiple ways in and out of the Healing Halls. One of the Handmaidens had taken pity on him a few hours past, bringing him a tray of food, but he hadn’t touched it.

 

Thor sits down next to him. “They told me you have not eaten.” Thor’s cape hem drifts over him, and he leans into the warmth.

 

“I will not eat until I know of her status.”

 

Thor pulls him in, brushing a kiss over his forehead. “Sif informed me how you and the Lady Stephanie worked to uncover Tanarus’ treachery and that you remembered me. It assisted me in defeating the God-Eater.”

 

He smiles up at his big brother. “I would love to hear that tale but—“

 

“I understand, little Loki.”

 

“Can you stay? Until I- _we_ get word?”

 

“She is mortal,” Thor reminds him, tugging him in until Loki allows his shoulders to relax, leaning against his brother’s chest. “They are injured easily.”

 

“She seems indestructible,” Loki confides, turning his face towards Thor. “Always ready with a quip or a comment, and she does the seemingly-impossible.”

 

“Yes, the All-Mother alerted me she went to Hel on your behalf,” Thor’s face is troubled. “Loki, what does she owe Hela?”

 

“It is unnamed. She does not know.”

 

Thor’s breath hisses out between his teeth. “If she dies, she cannot repay her unnamed favor,” he muses. “Supposedly.”

 

“She cannot die,” Loki says, desperately. “Brother, she cannot.”

 

“Sh, Loki.”

 

Iðunn exits the Hall, coming to a stop in front of them. “You may see her now,” she says, smiling at them. “Her spirit is strong; she did not fight me or my handmaidens. She will live.”

 

“But?” Loki says suspiciously.

 

“There is no but, little Loki. She is still sleeping, a side-effect of the healing spells I placed upon her. If she were Asgardian, I would say that she would wake up tomorrow. She being mortal,” Iðunn shrugs, “well, who can tell. You may not stay for long—her sleep being induced or not, she needs her rest. She went up against a troll. Not many mortals can claim that and live.”

 

“She did it in the name of Asgardia,” Loki says fiercely.

 

“And indeed, we are most grateful. I am certain we can find some measure of reward for her. In the meantime, _now_ you may see her. She is in the room at the end of the hall. She was not the only one injured by the actions of today, and she is one of the lucky ones,” Iðunn stares him down. “You are not the only one to feel anxiety and stress over the fate of loved ones, Loki. Do not make that mistake.”

 

He and Thor stand, and Thor clasps his shoulder. “I am certain he does not, Lady Iðunn. But this is more personal for him, just as the others have family members and loved ones who are more focused on their survival than the survival of others as a whole. It is not wrong, just a narrow focus.”

 

Iðunn inclines her head. “Well said, Odinson. You may pass.”

 

He and Thor pass slowly through the Halls. They pass wards where the handmaidens are still doing surgery, and the wards closest to Stephanie are filled with healing warriors.

 

With a quick, deep breath, to bolster his courage, he enters her room, Thor a large presence behind him.

 

Her hand is splinted—no doubt to keep the healing spells in place—as is her head. From the shape of her lower torso under the blankets, her chest is wrapped—broken ribs, then. Her shoulders are uncovered, and he stares in shock at the scars littered there. She had skated over the traumatic events of her personal history, but here is the evidence that it happened, in shrieking, red-and-white glory.

 

There is no doubt that a good portion of derived from her torture. They’re too uniform in comparison to some of the scars adorning her shoulders and upper arms.

 

Thor’s breath hisses between his teeth, and he places both hands on Loki’s shoulders. “She has suffered much, for a mortal.”

 

Loki reaches out and moves aside a lock of hair where it’s resting on her face. “She has suffered much for a being of any race, brother.”

 

Thor squeezes his shoulders. “True enough. Are you convinced of her well-being, brother?”

 

“No,” he admits, “but I believe she will wake.”

 

Thor hoists him to his shoulder as they depart the Healing Halls, Iðunn smiling at them as they go. “It has ever been so whenever my mortal comrades have been injured in battle. We fret over their slumbering bodies while they recuperate and rejoice when they are able to join us on the battlefield once more.”

 

“Stephanie and I fight on a different battlefield, Thor...you are not taking me to my tower.”

 

“No,” Thor agrees, “you will sleep in my chambers tonight. I will not leave you alone, not when your comrade lies in the Healing Halls.”

 

“Sif won’t object?”

 

“Sif is retiring to her own chambers, tonight.”

 

Loki nods slowly. “But—this is the night you returned, surely you wish to spend time with your wife--.”

 

“Loki, tonight you need me more than my wife does.” Thor looks at him. “Is there any further argument I should gird myself against?”

 

He shakes his head, leaning against his brother as they enter the palace. Despite all of this, he is—glad, that Thor recognizes that he needs him tonight. Maybe resurrection won’t bring with it the throat-grabbing that he tended to in a rage.

 

Maybe.

 

\--

 

Stephanie sleeps for three days. He tries to visit her every day, and mostly succeeds, but only once he is able to sneak Leah in (in the dead of night, _of course_ ). Leah had stared down at Stephanie’s unconscious form, before announcing in her perfect monotone, “She will wake tomorrow at noon.”

 

“How do you know?” he had inquired, slipping into the omnipresent chair by her bedside. He knew without looking that the armrests had bent inwards slightly, a sign Thor had been by earlier. Possibly with Sif. Sif had become quite fond of Stephanie.

 

“She just told me so.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“Her mind is active, rebelling against the induced unconsciousness. She is unhappy,” Leah’s head had tilted, “my apologies, _furious_ that she was put to sleep against her will. It has brought up unpleasant memories. The spells keeping her asleep have weakened, and she will break through them once there is a crack to break.”

 

“That is Iðunn’s finest work.”

 

“No doubt that is why she has not awakened thus far,” Leah had agreed.

 

Now, Stephanie was awake and spitting mad at Iðunn. She and Freyja had been closeted with Stephanie since she had awoken, and only now were Thor and Loki allowed inside.

 

Stephanie is dressing, or looks to be almost done. She is wearing a snowy white shirt with her jeans and boots, and she looks over at Thor and Loki hovering by the doorway. “You can come in, you two.” She tugs on her purple jacket, lifting her hair from underneath it and shaking the blonde strands loose.

 

“You are well?” Thor rumbles.

 

She shrugs. “Well enough. I still have to wear the enchanted corset brace thing, since according to Yon Glorious Healer, mortal ribs are fragile in comparison to Aesir and I might rebreak them by, you know, _breathing_.”

 

Oh, she _is_ furious.

 

“Iðunn has crafted her skill,” Thor starts, but Stephanie’s brittle, sardonic smile stops him.

 

“Thor. Thank you for your input. I am sure she’s worked _really hard_. But I don’t like being drugged, and whatever she may say in defense of herself, bespelling someone asleep and keeping them asleep is no different from how I look at it. And I hate it. Like, a lot. So please don’t take offense when I say I’m not interested in hearing defense of her right now.”

 

“That is fair,” Thor allows.

 

Stephanie breathes in and out, visibly relaxing. She turns to Loki. “So, you miss me while I was,” her nostrils flare, “asleep?”

 

“He was by your side every day,” Thor confirms.

 

Stephanie’s smile turns secret and sly, for Loki only. “Oh, I know.” She rests a hand on his head for a moment before gathering up the rest of her belongings.

 

“What did the All-Mother want?” Loki inquires, taking her sleeping clothes.

 

“Oh, just to let me how very grateful they were that I took on a troll in their name, etc. etc. I half expected them to say 10 points to Gryffindor. Iðunn offered a potion to wipe away my scars.”

 

Thor looks at her strangely. “Did you agree?”

 

“I saw it as a fairytale secret test of character. Since everything I ever needed to know about human nature I learned about from fairytales, I obviously declined. Instead, they’re ordering something for me to send to Hela. I think they even found a messenger that can, and I quote, ‘walk between the worlds,’” she shrugs, “unquote, so they’re delivering it for me as well.”

 

“A fairytale secret test of character?” Loki demands, ducking under Thor’s arm as his brother holds up the door to the Healing Halls.

 

“Oh, in fairytales, children with siblings are always being sent on quests. The oldest child is usually warlike and stuff, and when asked by random homeless person to help, goes, HELL NO. The middle child is usually warlike too, but every so often it changes up slightly. When middle child meets random homeless person, their answer is usually, no I can’t help you, sorry. When youngest, who is usually not warlike, is quite polite and sometimes bookish, meets random homeless person, and offers to help them of their own accord. Their generosity often grants them success on their quests—success where their siblings failed. So, when Iðunn offered me a potion to take away my scars,” Stephanie trails off, staring out into Asgardia, “I told her that I got my scars the hard way, and I’m keeping them.”

 

“Is there any other way to gain scars?” Thor inquires.

 

Stephanie cackles. “Fair enough. Each scar I’ve gotten has taught me things, and,” she shrugs again. “Let’s put it this way: the universe has put me in a lot of bad places. But I’ve gotten out of them. My scars remind me of that.”

 

“Scars garnered in battle are honorable ones,” Thor concurs. “Lady Stephanie, Loki, this is where I leave you. Sif is waiting for me with a group of new warriors to train,” he grimaces. “A warrior’s work is never done.”

 

Loki displaces one hand from the pile of clothes he’s holding to wave at his big brother as Thor disappears down the hall.

 

Loki eyes Stephanie as she opens the door of the tower to him, closing it behind him. “What did you send Hela?”

 

“A chair,” she says breezily. “I think she’ll like it.”

 

Loki can’t quite imagine a chair worthy of asking the All-Mother to help in purchasing and sending it to a recipient who lives in Hel, but perhaps his imagination is limited.

 

“Why do you hate to be drugged?” he finds himself asking when there is a lull.

 

Stephanie’s face freezes. “My father. He, uh, he drugged me once. In the middle of a prison riot, with a _very_ illegal drug. When I woke up, I had almost died, and my mother told me she knew I was Batgirl. While I was glad—no more lying to Mom, and now we could have a post-season two Joyce and Buffy Summers relationship—being drugged in any capacity freaks me out.”

 

“Ah. I understand.”

 

“So, you got Leah to visit me, huh?” her face turns teasing. “Do you _like_ her?”

 

“No!” he protests immediately. “She’s my BFF.”

 

Stephanie’s smile turns fond. “I miss my BFF. Both of them.”

 

“Wouldn’t it BFFs?”

 

“No, it’s already plural,” Stephanie clarifies, “Best Friend _s_ Forever. To add an ‘s’ at the end makes it doubly plural, and thus grammatically incorrect.”

 

Loki blinks. “I...had not considered that.”

 

Stephanie smirks. “The more you know!” She pulls herself onto the windowsill, crossing one leg over the other and crossing her arms. “So, you did hang out with Leah?”

 

“She gets lonely,” he confesses, nervously looking around for Leah to pop up, almost like a Midgardian ninja. Thankfully, Ikol was out...doing whatever magpies did to feed themselves. “She will not say it, but she is. There are more people in Hel that she knows than here.”

 

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Stephanie looks out the window. “We should have another movie night.”

 

“With more animated animals?” he asks warily.

 

“How about monsters?”

 

“ _Excuse_ me?”

 

“No no, it’s okay, it’s called _Monsters Inc._ Let me see if I can get it, okay?”

 

“Oh very _well_.”

 

“Hey, kid,” he sighs and looks up at her. Her face is serious, but she’s not calling him by his name. “It’s okay, if you were worried for me.”

 

“I was--.”

 

“Loki,” and _there_ it is. She is serious. “You and Leah and me—we’re all in this together, okay?”

 

She slides down from the windowsill to offer her clenched fist. He bumps his own fist against hers, and she grins. “Now, let me see if I can find _Monsters Inc._ ”

 

\--

 

Loki’s off with Sif, the Warriors Three, and Thor on a hunting trip (and for all that he complained about it, she knows he’s _ecstatic_ ), and she has nothing to do.

 

So obviously, the best choice is to go pester Leah.

 

As Steph picks her way to Leah’s cave, she finds herself wondering what exactly Leah does when Loki’s with her or with Thor. Read? Does she have her own StarkPad? (Like the iPad, only with the Nike swish instead of the Apple. Coming to a tech store near you!) Does she cast spells for fun?

 

...apparently, she sleeps.

 

The moment Steph crosses the threshold of the cave, though, Leah jolts awake, throwing out a hand glowing green (um, Leah, no real desire to be the Kim Possible to your Shego, but thanks for asking), but she clearly understands it’s Steph (and it does take her a moment), she relaxes and the green energy goes away. “Stephanie. My apologies, you startled me.”

 

“No big,” Steph assures her, “if you startle one of my mentors, she’ll hit you in the stomach with one of her escrima sticks and frantically apologize while you’re puking your guts out. Glowy green energy not attacking me? Practically normal in Steph-world.”

 

Leah stares for a moment, and then sighs. “Mortal slang still eludes me at times.” She looks back up at Steph. “What do you want?”

 

Steph sticks her hands in her pockets. “Wanted to see if you wanted to hang out. You know, girl stuff. There’s a small used bookstore in town. I haven’t poked around in it, it could be a Jesus store, but I figure it’s worth a look. Want to come?”

 

“You do not have Loki with you,” Leah looks guarded.

 

“Nope,” Steph says cheerfully. “He’s off doing the big-brother-bonding-thing by killing various entities of dubious threat.”

 

“So why then spend time with me?”

 

Steph shrugs again, but her heart’s breaking on the inside. “When Loki’s not around, I’m at loose ends. The All-Mother’s kind of come around that even though I have, like, a mortal heartbeat, I’m not a drain on society, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m welcome. I figured you’re in the same boat, since only Loki and me know you’re here. And I need some new books, anyway.”

 

Leah scrutinizes her for a long moment, before getting up in a fluid movement (seriously, how does that work?) and stretching. “Very well. Since I would be doing you a favor.”

 

“Oh, totes,” Steph agrees blandly.

 

They spend the long walk to Broxton debating about various aspects of slang, and when it could be appropriate (Steph: _All the time_ , unless it’s a job interview or a swanky job. Leah: _Never_ ).

 

When they get to the secondhand shop, (accurately called _The Book Nook_ —it’s pretty tiny), Steph heads straight for fiction. Leah trails her, running her fingertips over the spines and the tops of the pages. “Feel free to pick out something,” Steph tells her, looking over a couple of historical novels. “Thor asked the All-Mother to set up an allowance for me, as ‘hazard pay,’ I think he put it, and there’s not much I’m going to spend it on.”

 

“You are certain?”

 

“Sweetie, I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I was.”

 

“I do not understand the mortal need to create such varied narratives,” Leah says later, perusing a bodice-ripper that Steph’s pretty sure she saw her mom reading once upon a time.

 

“Don’t you guys have your owns stories and sagas?”

 

“Yes, and they are embedded in our cultural consciousness, but they are not,” Leah struggles with the right terms before shrugging, “as creative as you mortals seem to be.”

 

“You know, there’s a quote I came across once—can’t remember how I heard it, maybe Tim mentioned it—that said there are no new stories,” she glances at Leah, “and that all stories can trace their lineage to specific archetypes.”

 

“What do _you_ think?”

 

“I think that there are no new stories, only stories waiting to be told. Maybe that’s really rosy of me to think of, but my life could suit a comic book, how strange it’s been. So of my ‘adventures,’ as I like to think of them,” she sniffs for effect, and is satisfied when Leah giggles, looking as young as Loki for a moment, “all of them have been individual stories that I’ve heard, but altogether? If there’s some sort of grand storyteller, like god or whatever, I don’t know what the hell they’ve been smoking, because my life’s been a series of fits and starts and stops, and I don’t know why.”

 

“There is the Teller,” Leah muses, “but I do not know if he possesses power over your home dimension.”

 

“The Teller?”

 

“The Great Storyteller. Lore states he writes out our stories, and with the right spell, you can make him appear before you and tell you how your story ends, but he always takes something in return.”

 

“Well, that’s normal,” Steph agrees.

 

“But the price is always dear, and not one easily paid,” Leah bites her lip in consideration. “It is not wise to appeal to him.”

 

“I get that,” Steph frowns at the books she’s holding, and puts the Civil War narrative back, leaving the Eleanor of Aquitaine and Nina Simone books with her. “What are you getting, Leah?”

 

“These two,” Leah says quietly. One is _Inkheart_ , and the other was the bodice-ripper she had been perusing. Somewhere, in the back of Steph’s brain that believes it’s a responsible adult, she thinks maybe she should advice against the second (if Leah _is_ 12, as she hypothesizes—look Bruce, no theorizing without data anymore), but she decides to hell with it. She can always take it back if Leah doesn’t like it.

 

“All right, give ‘em here,” Steph tells her, holding out a hand for the books. Leah passes them to her and they check out.

 

Once they’re done, Steph steers them towards Bill’s, checking the street out of habit. It’s safe, no one’s there. Good.

 

Steph orders her usual waffles and Leah peruses the menu quite professionally before asking for a burger and fries, and they eat in silence.

 

It’s only as they’re walking back that Leah begins, “Do you miss home?”

 

Steph has a soda to go, and she hitches the straps of the book bag onto her shoulder before poking her straw in her to-go cup to break up some of the ice. “Parts of it. I miss people. I miss my college. Gotham gets in your blood, and it’s hard to excise. You can try—it’s not easy, but you can try—but as dirty and as terrible as Gotham is, I miss it.” She smiles at Leah. “Does that make sense?”

 

“Not really,” the girl says bluntly, “but then, most would wonder why I miss Hel, so I am in no position to pass judgment.”

 

“Hela’s your—mom, right?” Loki had been vague on who exactly Leah was to Hela, and she had wondered at the time if it was intentional.

 

“Not exactly. I am Hela’s handmaiden, her—ladies’ maid, almost.”

 

“You’re young,” Steph observes quietly, sipping her soda.

 

Leah’s eyes flash green glowy stuff. “Not _that_ young.”

 

“It always feels that way when you’re at that age,” Steph jokes. “But Hela—she treats you like family, yeah?”

 

“There are not many she is close to,” Leah allows.

 

“Fair enough.” Different tack time. “I miss my mom.”

 

“What was she like?”

 

“Oh, she was a nurse. Kind of like Iðunn’s handmaidens,” Steph tacks on hastily.

 

“I _know_ what a nurse is.”

 

“My mistake. She and my dad were...not a good match, and she developed some habits after I was born to cope,” she swallows. “The call to change happened after I ‘died.’ She kicked her habits, got her life back on track, and then I returned to Gotham. We had a couple of rough patches—expected, but it wasn’t any easier to deal with just because you could expect it. But we got to know each other again, and I’d fight for my mom any day of the week.”

 

Leah’s silent for a while, and then, as they get closer to her cave, she says quietly, “I would fight for my lady Hela any day of the week, as well. In that, she _is_ like my mother. And that she would leave me here—it hurts.”

 

Steph really, really wants to hug her, but she doesn’t get the same vibe from Leah that she does from Loki. Loki’s touch-starved, and he craves it without even knowing it. Leah, on the other hand, is much more reserved.

 

She meant it when she thought Leah was the lovechild of Spock and Babs.

 

“Can I hug you?” Steph asks.

 

“Mortals and their propensity to touch,” Leah snorts. Her shoulders slump. “Not right now, Stephanie. I appreciate the sentiment, but I am not comfortable with touch.”

 

“Fair,” Steph agrees. “Look, is there anything I can get you in particular? From Asgardia, I mean. Food, linens, anything?”

 

“Loki has taken good care of me in that regard,” Leah hesitates. “I would not mind another ‘movie night,’ however.”

 

“On it,” Steph assures her. “Believe me, I am _so_ on it.”

 

“Then you have my thanks,” Leah bows, before taking her books from Stephanie and retreating for the day.

 

\--

 

It’s been four weeks since she came here, two since the whole Tanarus mess (and a week and a half since the whole ‘allow Steph to leave the hospital’ thing), and frankly—she’s tired.

 

But as she’s herding Loki and Leah towards Bill’s (apparently, the Bill who created it died during whole Siege-thingy-something that no one will tell her about), her phone buzzes. She gestures the Troublesome Duo in, ducking into the alley next to Bill to check the ID.

 

It’s the Cave.

 

How can the Cave call her when she’s a couple of dimensions over? She swallows, hitting answer.

 

“To all of the allies of the Bat presently in Gotham I send this to you with greatest urgency.” That’s _Alfred_. She has _never_ heard Alfred this rattled. “Tonight, the Court of Owls has sent their assassins to kill nearly forty people across the city.” Holy _shit_. “The Court’s targets are all Gotham leaders. People who share this city.” There’s a bit of static, and then Alfred’s voice comes back. “The Court’s assassins, the ‘Talons,’ are already en route to their targets. They are highly trained killers with extraordinary regenerative abilities. For many of their targets—“

 

“Alfred,” Steph says. She repeats it, with higher urgency. “ _Alfred_. It’s me, Steph. Can you hear me?”

 

She hears gunshots, and then it cuts out.

 

She stares down at her phone, ancient thing that it is (Loki had teased her when he saw her with it once that did she get it from the _Dark Ages_?) and feels a lump in her throat.

 

Shit’s going down in Gotham, and even _Alfred’s_ in on it—and she’s nowhere close by.

 

_Fuck_ she hates her life.

 

Swallowing past that lump is hard, but she does it, exiting the alley (which is nowhere near creepy enough for her, which tells you _a lot_ about her life), pausing in front of the diner window to tuck her phone inside of her bag. Her senses twitch in warning, and she ducks.

 

Out of _nowhere_ , a mace slams into the window, shattering it.

 

Loki and Leah are sitting in that booth—because that’s her life, no really—and there is the accompanying screaming as the wielder of the mace withdraws the spiked ball thing for another hit.

 

He’s wearing fairly ridiculous armor, and there seems to be an owl motif going. It’s very medieval, anyway, and he’s way taller than her.

 

Okay, Steph, you can do this.

 

The mace whistles down again (and seriously, with the whistling? Whips and swords she understands, but a mace—whistling— _what_?) and she jumps backward, landing in a crouch on the table, sending Leah’s drink flying. “Sorry,” she apologizes, glaring up at the Masked Ridiculously Armored Guy. “I’ll make it up to you.”

 

“Please,” Leah says coolly. “Would you like our assistance?”

 

“I’ve got this, I think, but can you get the civilians out? There should be a back door.”

 

“On it,” Loki says quickly, just as the mace comes down again.

 

She twists out of the way, coming up against the bar. Okay, Steph, break it down. He’s tall and in ridiculous armor—that should mean he’s top-heavy. First things first, get that mace away from him.

 

His arm goes back as he prepares to hit her with the mace; just as it comes down, she yanks a barstool over herself, and the mace and chain wrap against the legs. The spikes of the mace almost graze her face, but she tugs on the barstool and throws it to the side. There, disarmed.

 

“Stephanie Brown,” Masked Ridiculously Armored Guy rasps, like he’s a huge smoker. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

 

“Oh?” And she still hasn’t learned anything about not running her mouth during survival situations, because she continues, “So not only are you going for, let’s tally it, hm, breaking and entering, destruction of property, disturbance of the peace, assault, assault with a deadly weapon, possibly stalking, since you know who I am, you’re also going for conspiracy? Bub, if you kill me, that means you’re looking at Murder One.”

 

“There is no if about it,” M.R.A.G. retorts, closing his right hand into a fist and aiming it at her. She thanks god above and Babs for beating her reflexes into her, because she snatches up another barstool. Just in time, four knives embed themselves in the seat of the stool.

 

She snarls in response, grabbing the stool’s legs and swinging it at M.R.A.G.’s feet. He goes down—shouldn’t be wearing all that armor, _fucker_ —and she clubs him over the head with the stool.

 

She vaults over the bar, looking for _anything_. She has a couple of ‘rangs with her (never leave home without it), and her grapple and her taser, but she’s not entirely sure how effective they’ll be against M.R.A.G. without any sort of back-up. With her luck, if this is the same group that’s currently attacking Gotham (and okay, M.R.A.G. helpfully telling her it’s the Court of Owls has her pretty sure it’s the same group), they’ll have prepared for Bat-Tricks.

 

If Alfred’s calling the Batfam, they will have definitely prepared for Bat-Tricks.

 

Which means her ‘rangs won’t work without some serious back-up.

 

“Come out come out little bat,” M.R.A.G.’s voice kind of rattles in his chest. It’s gross.

 

She’s at a bar. There are lots of things she could use.

 

She sees a full, unopened bottle of—she thinks it’s bourbon—and she snatches it, and she sees two opened cans of whipped cream, and she grabs those too. Then she vaults back over the bar, squirting whipped cream at the shooting mechanism on his arm (given that he pressed a button to operate it, she’s pretty sure it’s electronic) and she’s satisfied when she sees him claw it off his arm. To add to that, she sprays his goggles with whipped cream and then clubs him over the head with the bottle of maybe-bourbon, and while he’s reeling, she makes a run for it.

 

Gotta get him out an enclosed space, into the open. There’s more stuff she can do out in the open.

 

Leah ‘psts’ as her as she runs past, and she finds Loki and Leah clustered outside the alley of the diner. “Tell her what you told me,” Loki shoves Leah lightly, his voice breathless.

 

Leah looks as cool as always. “He is not truly alive, but neither is he dead.”

 

“Wait, I’m being attacked by a _Zombie_ Masked Ridiculously Armored Guy?”

 

Loki points at her. “I hear the capital letters. And not quite—he hovers between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead. You cannot kill him, because he’s already technically dead, but neither can you bring him to life, because his heart is beating.”

 

“You know, what happened to riddles like ‘how is a raven like a writing desk?’” She scratches her head, and when she sees Loki open his mouth, she cuts him off. “Edgar Allen Poe wrote on both.” She sighs, tugging on her hair. “Ugh. So if I kill him dead-dead, I won’t be committing murder.”

 

“No, but he can kill _you_.” Leah looks fierce, like her sense of honor has been pricked or something. “He is an insult to the realms.”

 

“Found you little bat,” and wow, Z.M.R.A.G., your timing literally could _not_ be worse.

 

Leah calmly shoves him with a hand glowing green.

 

He lands in the opposite building.

 

“Let us help you,” Loki insists.

 

She presses her lips together, fighting down the tangle of her emotions. “Look, kid, Leah—“

 

“Why don’t I get a nickname?”

 

“...it’ll come. Look, you two, I appreciate it, but this guy’s buddies are weird enough to make _Batman_ call for back-up. I’m not risking you two.”

 

“So who will you risk?” Loki has this gleam in his eyes. She ignores it.

 

“Sif, if she’s free. She and I have _awesome_ team-ups when we’re training.”

 

“Not Thor?”

 

“Oh, he can come too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to lay a few traps.”

 

She darts out from behind the diner wall, and Z.M.R.A.G isn’t anywhere to be seen. She leaves an exploding Batarang by the fire hydrant (never know), and she’s turning on her heel, trying to figure out the next best location when a whip has wrapped itself around her throat and is dragging her across asphalt.

 

She is _so glad_ she’s wearing clothing that’s tucked in.

 

“Nice attempt little bat,” Z.M.R.A.G. gloats, picking her up and—oh, that’s going to hurt. She barely manages to curl into a ball as she’s flung at the opposite storefront from the diner. Z.M.R.A.G. had cracked the glass when Leah had thrown him at it—she breaks it completely, slamming into a glass display and coming to a stop.

 

Of- _fucking_ -course, it’s a weapons shop. She dimly hears the alarms ringing and she doesn’t really want to move, thanks to that there’s a piece of glass embedded in her side and holy fuck does it hurt. There are glass shards in her hair, pressed into her face and her palms, and she hasn’t even gotten up yet.

 

“Fuck,” she groans, because okay, she kept her language clean around Babs (who would give her the biggest stink-eye of all time), Dick (the reasoning should be obvious) and Damian (...ditto), but _fuck_ , this hurts.

 

She can hear Z.M.R.A.G.’s footsteps as he walks towards her. She rolls onto the side that glass is not poking out of and gets up slowly, cursing the asshole who decided that having a shop full of glass is a brilliant idea across from a bar. There’s a crossbow and some arrows-bolts-things that go with it, and she grabs it as she stands up.

 

Stringing it is an effort when her hands slip on the string from her own blood (yay positive imagery!), but she manages, leaning against one of the intact displays as she waits for asshole Z.M.R.A.G to come closer.

 

“That will not work on me,” he warns her.

 

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” she says cheerily. No utility belt full of crap, but she still has a positive attitude, goddamnit. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading over the past month and guess what? At a close enough range, crossbow bolts can punch through armor. Guess what? You’re within 6 feet,” and it hurts to the pull the trigger, just as her side is on fire, but her aim is awesome, as always, and the bolt lands in his shoulder, bypassing the armor completely.

 

It also throws him back enough that she presses the trigger button for the fire hydrant. Immediately, there’s like a twenty-foot surge of water, dousing him from head to toe. She throws away the crossbow, taking out an electro-icearang and throwing it at him. He shrieks as electricity plays over his damp metal armor (fucking dumb asshole) and then ice closes over him.

 

She closes her eyes and just wilts for a sec.

 

When that second’s done, she starts the process of walking out of the destroyed store (and it _is_ a process, Unknown Critic), pulling out the piece of glass and throwing it on the ground as she goes.

 

It’s not over—because she’s watched her fair share of horror films, okay, and it’s _never_ over until there is some sort of fatal injury to the head. Still, she uses this to catch her breath.

 

She doesn’t see Loki or Leah anywhere. Good.

 

A tall blond guy detaches from apparently where the townspeople are huddled (she didn’t even notice, which startles her) down the street and he starts to run as she sits down on the asphalt.

 

Steph hisses as she lands—jarring her side, _great_ idea—and the guy approaches, his hands in the air. “Miss? My name is Dr. Donald Blake. Can I help you?”

 

“Nice to see Good Samaritan laws exist here too,” she mumbles, nodding at him. She brushes some of the bigger glass ‘crumbs’ from her palms. Something warm hits her neck and she realizes it’s blood, but she only sighs.

 

“Okay, we need to get you to a hospital, and the nearest one is in Oklahoma City. I’ve called their emergency services, and they’re on the way,” Dr. Blake is nattering at her. “Don’t move, okay? What’s your name?”

 

Thanks adrenaline, thank you for leaving me, you scurvy knave. “Steph—Stephanie Brown,” she admits. “I’m tired.”

 

“Blood loss does that,” Dr. Blake says. He’s friendly, but in that professional way her mom gets. “Okay, Stephanie, this man that you have...frozen...attacked you, right? What other injuries besides the visible ones?”

 

“Um,” Cass is kneeling in front of her, her eyes serious. Her hand reaches out to trace Steph’s face, and some more of the glass embedded in her cheek falls onto her lap. She brushes it away carelessly. “Honestly, the glass is taking up all of my attention right now.”

 

“Stephanie, what’s your blood type?” Cass asks, her voice slightly deepened. Worry, concern—yeah, probably.

 

“It’s...it’s B+,” Steph yawns. “Cass, you’re going out of focus.”

 

“Stephanie, stay with me,” Cass urges.

 

“You never call me by my full name,” Steph says sleepily. “Am I dying?”

 

Cass doesn’t reply, but she fades out completely and Steph blearily focuses on the road in front of her. The ice containing the assassin-dude is starting to crack. She feels adrenaline course through her again, and she turns to face the doc. “Hey, doc, you might want to vacate,” she says, and her voice is sharp again. Good. “Sleeping Beauty just decided to grace us with his presence.”

 

Dr. Blake grips his metal cane, and then he gets up. “Stephanie, you shouldn’t—“

 

Her smile is feral when she looks up at him. “I got this.” She lurches to her feet in time to hiss as a knife sheathes itself in her left shoulder, at the juncture where her arm joins the shoulder. “You _missed_ , asshole!” She pitches her voice, because mouthing off to her enemies? Still not something she’s about to quit anytime soon.

 

“It will kill you anyway,” Z.M.R.A.G. disagrees. He’s visibly panting, and veins are painted all over his face and it’s just—it’s really gross, okay?

 

“Since you’re clearly getting your second wind and I’m trying not to focus on this cut in my side, why don’t you tell me _why_ exactly I’ve been sentenced to death by a Court that, by the way, I’m not sworn to in any way, so legally speaking I don’t think you guys have the right to sentence me to death.”

 

Z.M.R.A.G. is quiet, and she thinks he’s trying to figure out what exactly she said. “To send a message,” he rasps finally.

 

“To whom?” See, Babs, I _can_ learn.

 

“Your mother. And Batman.”

 

“What have you done to my mother?” she snarls quietly.

 

“Nothing. She is one of the head nurses at West Mercy Hospital, and the Court wishes to have control of it. Crystal Brown has proved to be in opposition to this, and your death will remind her who truly has control here. And Batman will be consumed with guilt over the death of a comrade who died in his name that he cannot remember.”

 

She’s angry now. People (cough Black Mask cough) tried to turn her into a symbol before, to warn off people like Batman, and she’s not going through that shit again.

 

Z.M.R.A.G. withdraws an _axe_ (what does he have, a Void Pocket?!) and he says soothingly, “I promise, it will be quick. The blade on this is honed to perfection. One swing, and it will be the end.”

 

“That’s sweet. Don’t care,” she growls, firing her grapple. It goes through the same hole as the crossbow bolt and she tugs him to her (payback for the whip, _asshole_ ). In the process, he drops the axe, practically at her feet, and she doesn’t feel the gaping wound in her side or the knife as she picks up the axe. It’s huge and heavy, but she doesn’t care, and she hefts it. She thinks Z.M.R.A.G.’s eyes widen, but the goggles are still smeared with dairy and oil product, and before he can roll away, she brings down the blade of the axe across his neck.

 

It _is_ sharp, and it _is_ the end. She kicks the severed head away from her, dropping the axe and stumbling to the sidewalk, where she pukes her guts out.

 

Of course, that’s the cue for Sif and Thor to arrive.

 

Thor sees the huddled townspeople and strides off to speak to them while Sif helpfully holds her hair back. “First kill?” Sif says knowledgably, nodding at the stationary severed head.

 

“First direct one,” she says, queasy, bending over again. When she comes back up for air, she closes her eyes and breathes, before asking, “Can that body be burned? I hit him like who knows how many times and he kept coming. I would hate for his body to put itself back together while we’re not looking.”

 

“It will occur,” Sif reassures her, assessing her wounds. “We need to get you to Iðunn.”

 

“No need,” the healing goddess is like, _right_ there. Loki is with her. Iðunn nods to him. “I was alerted I would be needed.”

 

Thor comes back with Dr. Blake. “She needs to be taken to the hospital, with a blood transfusion and surgery at least,” Dr. Blake starts.

 

“We can do that,” Iðunn says coolly. “Is there an aspect of mortal care we cannot provide?”

 

“The blood transfusion,” Dr. Blake says. “I have a stock of B+. But she should really be going to Oklahoma City—“

 

“She is one of ours. _We_ will tend to her.”

 

She’d probably appreciate this more if her vision weren’t spotting in and out. Her left arm’s on fire and her side aches and unconsciousness is imminent. Cass is standing by her again, brushing more glass particles out of her hair. “Do not die on me,” Cass orders her, her voice back to its light soprano. “Steph, do you hear me?”

 

“I hear and obey, oh fearless leader,” she replies, giving in to unconsciousness at last.

 

\--

 

Stephanie’s wounds are serious.

 

The glass shard that wounded her side didn’t manage to pierce the internal organs, or as Iðunn said, “Thank Goddess for small favors,” but it is the knife wound that is the most serious.

 

“The blade was poisoned,” Iðunn tells Thor. “I managed to halt its spread, and it is confined to her arm alone. However, it is a poison my handmaidens and I have never seen before. We are working on a cure, but it may be the price of her life is her arm.” The veins in Stephanie’s left arm are turning black with necrosis, and Loki knows, although Iðunn doesn’t say it, that if a cure isn’t found within 24 hours, Iðunn will be forced to amputate.

 

The dwarves would make Stephanie a new arm, but that’s not the point.

 

The handmaiden tending to Stephanie 24/7 is a girl named Aldis, and she is determined that only one of them—despite the fact that Sif and Thor are powerful in Asgardia—are with Stephanie at a given time. It is Thor’s turn, so Sif took Loki to the mess hall to eat. They sit in a corner and he picks at his food.

 

Sif is eating a great deal, but then, she is a warrior. This is something she is used to.

 

“She will recover, Loki,” Sif says awkwardly, and he blinks, because Sif is attempting to be comforting. “If she loses her limb thanks to battle, it is still honorable.”

 

He doubts Stephanie will see it that way. “I am concerned with the fact that she has yet to wake up,” he confesses, stabbing at his roast potatoes. “Iðunn swore that she would never spell Stephanie to sleep unless she must, and there may be a head wound.”

 

“She will heal faster if she remains unconscious,” Sif assures him, refilling his flagon of cider. “We spend more energy being awake, and her body is devoting all of its energy to fighting the poison infecting her.”

 

“Couldn’t the apples of Iðunn help?”

 

Sif purses her lips. “Her arm has been sealed off from the rest of her body by spells. Only healthy blood is allowed to pass through. It is possible if she ingested the apples, it would not help. And since her body is weakened, even the power contained in a few slices of apple might raise her fever to deadly levels.”

 

“Shame she killed the assassin so quickly,” he mutters.

 

Sif shocks him by agreeing. “Death by beheading was far too quick. For attacking one of Asgardia, he should have been made to suffer.”

 

It still shocks him that Iðunn said publicly that Stephanie was now of Asgardia. It’s not exactly xenophobic, but Asgardia still looks slightingly on those who are not Aesir or Vanir.

 

Thor enters the mess hall and sees Sif and Loki. He makes his way over to them, gently moving aside various Asgardians. “Loki, you may go in now,” Thor tells him quietly, rubbing his head before starting to eat from his own plate.

 

He gets up and departs with all due haste.

 

Stephanie’s room is different from her previous visit. It is in the isolation ward, only used during disease or when the patient requires absolute privacy. However, there is a window up high, just enough to let light in. He sees Leah sitting outside the window, keeping an eye on the proceedings on the inside, and Ikol is perched on her shoulder. She nods at him and he at her, before he looks to Aldis.

 

She is mashing something in a mortar. The sweet, heavy scent of apples rises up from it, but it is tempered with witch hazel and something else he doesn’t recognize. “What is that for?” he questions, sitting down on the chair besides Stephanie’s bed.

 

“It is a poultice, or will be,” Aldis points to a square of cheesecloth. “It will be applied to the open wound and changed every hour while my sisters work on a cure. Lady Iðunn hopes it will slow the spread of the poison, if not halt it entirely. Apples for health and vitality, witch hazel for purification and to bring swelling and infection to a halt, and ginger for longevity. We also have apple nectar to spoon into her mouth every thirty minutes.”

 

“To heal the rest of the body?”

 

“To bring her fever down,” Aldis begins to spoon some of the mixture onto the cheesecloth, tying it together with some string and pressing it to the wound of Stephanie’s shoulder, wrapping it with treated bandages that shimmer with healing spells. “Lady Iðunn hopes that if the rest of the body can be brought to full health, the arm can be persuaded to do the same. I have given her her first teaspoon of nectar. I will return in half an hour.”

 

He leans back in the chair. Unlike the chairs outside the Healing Halls, this one is comfortable and warm. Stephanie remains asleep, her golden hair damp with sweat. The blankets cover her chest but leave her shoulders bare. Her uninjured arm lies on top of the blankets, her hand clutching and releasing the blankets in consternation as her eyebrows knot in a frown.

 

He picks up a damp cloth and begins to sponge off the sweat from her face, gnawing his lip in worry.

 

\--

 

“Stephanie.”

 

“Babs?” She relaxes as Babs rolls into view, Cass a step behind her. “God, I had the most awful dream. You had decided to be Batgirl again, and Cass went missing, and I—“

 

“It’s not a dream, Steph,” Cass says softly.

 

She frowns. “But you’re all here with me.”

 

“This is still real,” Babs informs her, her fingers tracing her armrests in agitation. That’s never good. “But you’ve disappointed me.”

 

“What have I done now?” she tries to say it lightly, but a lump rises in her throat.

 

“Stephanie.”

 

“You killed someone,” Cass explains. “And there’s no CPR that can bring him back.”

 

“But—“

 

Babs’ glasses flash in what weird light there is. “What is our rule, Stephanie? We do not kill.”

 

“He would have killed me!” she protests.

 

“There are many enemies that would have killed us. Does that mean we should kill them first?”

 

“But he was the freaking Terminator, how could I—“

 

“Stop,” Babs orders. Steph shuts up. “Stephanie, you _killed someone_.”

 

She feels a tear roll down her cheek. “I know.”

 

Babs folds her hands on her lap. “You have a choice to make. Either hang up your cloak and retire or turn yourself in.”

 

“Wait, why?”

 

“If you’ve killed someone, who’s the say you won’t do it again? What if you grow to like it?” Babs’ glasses flash again. “What if you turn out like _Jason_?”

 

“I am _nothing_ like him,” she hisses out. “The guy I killed,” oh god it hurts to say it, “was an assassin, sent to kill me to send a message to Batman and my mom. He had some kind of healing factor. No matter what I did, he was going to get out of it.”

 

“That does not justify—“

 

“No, you’re right, it doesn’t. But hindsight’s 20/20, Babs. I needed to end the immediate threat and there was no easy way to do that, so I’m sorry for being a gigantic fuck-up, but you know what, I’m damn good at what I do. He was the only cost and I was the only one hurt, and yeah, there was some property damage, but I did what I had to do, okay?”

 

Cass smiles, and Babs relaxes slightly. “I just wanted to make sure _you_ knew that,” Babs tells her, before blinking out of existence.

 

“Cass,” Steph says helplessly when Cass just stands there. “How do I find you?”

 

“Try limbo,” Cass advises before fading out after Babs.

 

\--

 

Stephanie is crying.

 

In her sleep.

 

Loki is equal parts concerned and bemused.

 

He wipes it away, pretending it is only sweat, when Aldis returns with two more apples and a carafe (at least, that is what the mortals call that glass container for liquids) full of pale nectar. “Lady Iðunn added a touch of mead to speed its absorption into her body,” Aldis clarifies when the liquid shimmers a little too much in the candlelight. She checks the poultice and nods in approval—the veins that were becoming discolored thanks to the necrosis have cleared up a bit.

 

“Please pick her up, gently, so she does not choke,” Aldis directs, pouring some of the nectar into a tiered spoon, approaching Stephanie and Loki carefully. She presses the hinges of Stephanie’s jaw, and Stephanie opens her mouth slightly. Aldis places the tier of the spoon between her teeth and pours, and then strokes Stephanie’s neck to stimulate swallowing. She swallows, reflexively, and her color is changing in front of him.

 

“Her fever is going down,” Aldis says with satisfaction. “It will likely break during the night.”

 

“Is Iðunn any closer to a cure?”

 

“She has unlocked the source of the toxicity,” Aldis replies, a tad defensively. “I believe she said it was iron-based and susceptible to adrenaline, so that it would pass much more quickly in a body that is currently fighting. We were lucky that Stephanie had calmed down enough by the time she was struck with the blade, because if it had gotten into her carotid artery she would have died. No magic could have saved her.”

 

“But...no cure.”

 

“Not as of yet,” Aldis concedes, “but Iðunn and my sisters are only resting for food and visits to the privy.”

 

He nods, leaning back in the chair and rubbing his eyes.

 

“She is crying,” Aldis observes distantly a short time later, as she is unwrapping the bandages so she can swap out the old poultice for the new, along with new bandages.

 

He jumps to his feet, ready to defend her, but Aldis clearly doesn’t care. “It is not unusual for warriors to be overwhelmed in their sleep after battle,” she adds, pressing the new poultice against the red, angry wound on Stephanie’s shoulder. “Lady Sif implied this was her first kill. That would explain a great deal.”

 

Aldis surprises him by smiling at him as she wraps the new bandages around it, tucking in the corners and resettling the blankets. When they drape around her, he sees that hot bricks have been placed around Stephanie, no doubt to help her sweat the fever out. “You did a good thing, to get the Lady Iðunn when you did. Had Stephanie been reliant upon mortal medicine, I doubt she would have lived that first night.”

 

He nods. There’s nothing he can say, when Stephanie is locked in sleep, feverish and dying from a poisoned wound.

 

Aldis takes her leave, taking the used poultice and soiled bandages, and Leah opens the window. “I saw your brother leave to deal with the dwarves—no doubt the Lady Sif will alert you as to why.”

 

“Do you have the spell to turn yourself invisible?”

 

Leah arches a brow at him. “How do you think I have been hiding myself and your familiar?”

 

Ikol caws in response, digging his claws into Stephanie’s blankets. “She was a fool, not to accept your help.”

 

“We look like children, and she has the yearn to protect children as she was not protected,” Leah says pleasantly, though a bit of magic flips Ikol’s tail feathers. Ikol yelps and glares at her, rustling his feathers in consternation.

 

“I believe the mortals did many studies on why mortals feel the urge to protect the small and the cute,” he offers to cut off Ikol and Leah from bickering.

 

“You’re certainly arrogant to believe you are _cute_ ,” Leah turns up her nose.

 

“But I am certainly small,” he beams.

 

“That is not something to be proud of.”

 

Stephanie’s hand twitches outside the blankets, and they all pause, watching her face. She frowns some more and turns her face towards the pillow, and they relax.

 

“She invited this fate upon herself,” Ikol says restlessly, bating. “She cannot protect you if she is dead.” He turns towards Leah. “Nor can she pay her debt to Hela in regards to the Tanarus matter if she is dead.”

 

“That debt is paid,” Leah tells them, surprise coloring her voice. “She made Hela laugh in a way Hel has not heard for quite some time. Hela considered that repayment enough.”

 

Loki wants to ask how that has to do with a chair, but Ikol bates again, digging his claws into the blankets even further. “She cannot pay her debt to you if she is dead.”

 

“She will not die,” Loki tells the troublesome creature. “Iðunn has seen to that.”

 

“She should have accepted your help when it was offered,” Ikol snaps. “Then she would not have even been in this position, unconscious and hoping on a cure within a specific parameter of time, that may not even come.”

 

“So heal her, then,” Leah examines her nails with an air of disinterest. “If it bothers you that much.”

 

Ikol glares again. “I have not that power.”

 

“Then say nothing, and waste no air.”

 

Stephanie shifts again, and they glance at her. Her color is fast approaching normal, and Leah places a hand on her forehead. “Her fever is broken,” she reports idly, sitting down in the abandoned chair. “Though the necrosis has not changed.”

 

“Have you seen any poison like it?”

 

“No, but perhaps it is specific to her home realm.” Leah taps her chin.

 

“Then perhaps the cure can be found there.”

 

“Do you have the means to travel there? You do not. Leave it to Iðunn, or perhaps the near-constant infusion of apple nectar and the poultice may heal it without the cure.”

 

Loki’s shoulders slump.

 

They hear Aldis’ footsteps outside and Leah shimmers slightly, and Ikol flies to Loki’s shoulder, surveying the handmaiden rather critically. “Has her fever broken?” Aldis inquires, removing the two hot bricks by Stephanie’s side and reaching for the replacements.

 

Loki takes a step back, closer to Leah. “I believe it has.”

 

Aldis looks him over, before checking for herself. She looks surprised. “That was much quicker than I anticipated.”

 

“There is a great deal of healing energy from the apples of Iðunn in her body,” Loki points out.

 

Aldis bites her lip. “Still, she’s pure mortal, or so the Lady Iðunn informed me. It should be taking longer.”

 

“Are we complaining?” Loki wants to know.

 

She shakes her head, the linen cap on her head keeping her hair back somehow not moving. “No. Thank the Lady Iðunn for small favors, I suppose.”

 

“Have you eaten, Lady Aldis?” he says grandiosely. Leah elbows him in the side but he doesn’t move, because he doesn’t want to give away that she’s there, but oh, it _hurts_.

 

“In a bit,” Aldis says vaguely, checking Stephanie’s pulse and her breathing. She yawns. “Or perhaps not.”

 

“You said it yourself, that her condition is not likely to change during the course of the night,” he answers, after yawning in response. “Get some rest. If something happens, I will come get you.”

 

“Let me get enough poultices and bandages to last her. Do you need special instruction in how to apply them?”

 

“No,” he smiles, the same sweet smile he gave to the Destroyer when it agreed to work with him.

 

Aldis looks unconvinced, but she bustles from the room.

 

Loki turns to Leah. “You should go, get some sleep.”

 

Leah’s eyes are intent. “And you?”

 

“I’ll stay—watch over her. Thor’s away on a trip, and Sif is likely with the All-Mother.” He shrugs, looking at his sleeping protector. “I have no place to be.”

 

Leah surprises him by reaching out and clasping his shoulder. “You are not terrible,” she decides, “though certainly a trial.”

 

He grins at her. “You _do_ like me!”

 

Leah rolls her eyes. “I am not your BFF.”

 

“But we’re getting there,” he says cheekily, and watches her climb out the window.

 

Ikol clears his throat, which is an interesting sound to come from a bird. “It is night.”

 

“Really?” Loki says sarcastically, turning in time to greet Aldis as she drops bandages and the makings for the poultice on the counter next to Stephanie’s bed.

 

“I will make the poultice, so that all you have to do is switch out the bandages and the poultices every hour on the hour,” Aldis looks even more tired, pale and drawn. “I will sleep for but a few hours, and return in the wee hours of the morning.”

 

He nods.

 

“Be careful with the nectar,” Aldis adds. “Limit it to one spoonful an hour. Too much is not good for mortals,” she chuckles quietly, “too much is not good for _anyone_.”

 

“I’ve got it,” he says quickly.

 

She flashes him a smile and he sits down in the chair, already beginning to doze off. Iðunn herself could show up with the cure at this moment and he would not notice.

 

\--

 

Steph...wakes up.

 

It’s kind of a shock. She’d been drifting in and out for a while, and her arm was on _fire_ , where the hell was some kind of fire-suppressor-thing, she was being fed something that tasted impossibly tart and impossibly sweet, Loki and Leah were bickering (this was not new), and then...

 

She hadn’t expected to, like, die. She may have made her peace with dying three years ago, but she still has stuff to do.

 

But she had been wary of Iðunn since the woman-goddess-person had admitted to bespelling her to keep her asleep.

 

So yeah, waking up is fun.

 

There’s a bandage on her shoulder—probably from the knife wound—and yep, there’s a thin pale scar where the glass cut into her (another one to add to the list; note to self, Steph, next time you decide to let yourself get picked up by a Zombie Masked Ridiculously Armed Guy, don’t get thrown through a window into a shop full of glass displays, mmkay?), but other than the bandage on her shoulder, she’s unharmed.

 

Also, she feels _amazing_. The last time she felt this good was roughly two months into her extended vacation in Kenya, when she’d woken up for the first time _not_ feeling guilty.

 

That had been a good day.

 

She pulls back the covers and swings her legs over the side of the bed. Her legs take her weight ( _yay_ ), and she stands and stretches. Her feet are bare on the wooden floor, and it’s a little chilly, but that makes sense—the sky is dark outside the window, and Asgardia, being up in the clouds and all, gets _really_ cold at night.

 

Loki’s asleep in the chair next to the bed. She decides to give him a moment.

 

In the bathroom (Loki calls it a privy, Iðunn calls the ‘ready room,’ but it’s a bathroom, complete with a _bath_ ), she finds a pair of soft black leggings, _nice_ boots, and a purple dress with some gold edging. She holds the dress up and eyes it critically—she hasn’t worn a dress in the entire month or so she’s been in Asgardia, why the _hell_ would it be left for her here?

 

Underneath the dress is a corset with some kind of metal strings tying up the back. She twangs a string experimentally—it makes no noise. How is she going to put it on if the strings don’t even give enough to vibrate?

 

That she’s going to—eventually—put it on is no question. She’s in the undyed linen gown that when the wind blows right, you see _everything_ outlined in cloth.

 

Oh, and by the way? _Thanks,_ Asgardia. Never knew that I would know what undyed cloth would look like!

 

She uses the privy. She likes the term—it’s fun. Privy.  Heehee.

 

She’s still in her Midgard-approved, ah, ‘undergarments,’ ( _thank god, thank jesus, thank the virgin mary, she’s not courageous enough to ask for Asgardian magic underwear)_ , but she struggles with the corset as she tries to pull it over her head.

 

Then—miraculously—the metal bends and she slips it over her head and torso with no issue. The strings tighten again, just enough, as she tucks the girls in. She turns and appraises herself in the mirror—yes, okay, her scars from Black Mask are on full display ( _fuck you asshole, still not sorry you’re dead_ ), but her boobs look freaking _amazing_.

 

There’s like, a shadow and cleavage and _everything_. It’s nice. Her bras do nice things for her curves, but she usually goes for comfort and security (never know when some asshole is going to decide to, you know, threaten a science geek on campus and she’ll have to pull on the suit quickly, which means no time for a full suit-up, no Bat-bra to help out the undersuit and stuff), because the stuff used to accentuate the girls is also really expensive, and she, frankly, doesn’t have the money to spend on pretty bras.

 

So yeah. She likes the corset. It provides that necessary underwire support that anyone who has had their bodies develop while carrying a baby can agree is necessay. And she can still breathe, which has _not_ been the case with the one corset she had to wear while undercover (thanks a lot, Tim, while that purple dress was slinky and gorgeous you made me wear a TEDDY and you didn’t appreciate me in it so FUCK YOU).

 

She sits and pulls on the leggings. The material doesn’t really cling to her legs like tights. It’s more like...it drapes. And that’s nice—she can run in these leggings. From there, she pulls the dress over her head and remarkably—

 

It’s not terrible.

 

It’s kind of a crew neckline, where it cuts across her shoulders and shows off her collarbones but doesn’t dip any deeper. There’s heavy gold embroidery across the neckline and the cuffs of her sleeves, which also drape and are kind of balloon-y. There’s an accompanying gold belt, but it’s slim and is more for decoration, but she feels the dyed leather and yeah, it could hold a knife scabbard-thing. The skirts are swishy, but as she twirls (because yes, you always do that in a swishy skirt whenever you first put it on), she notices the slits in the skirt that allow her to get at the leggings.

 

So garters with knives are a go?

 

She lets her hair hang loose, once she’s done pulling on the boots and raking her hair with her fingers. Even if she didn’t feel like being vain, there’s nothing to tie it with.

 

She preens for a moment longer (no one has to know), before exiting the bathroom.

 

\--To find some kind of grotesque _thing_ sitting on top of Loki’s chest. It turns around and they stare at each other for a moment before it honks (yeah, it _honks_ , what is this, the trainwreck that was _Jurassic Park 3_?) and she lunges across the room, unfurling her leg at the knee and kicking it in the head. It skids off Loki and starts to scamper off down the hall. She picks up a random staff and chases after it, cornering it in the foyer of the Healing Halls and braining it with the stick. It falls over, apparently dead, but she hangs out there for a moment, waiting for it to stir. When it doesn’t, she hits it again in the head before turning on her heel to walk back to her room.

 

Loki looks bleary, and he’s pulled off his circlet and hood to rake his own fingers through his hair. “You’re up. Awake. Cured.”

 

She flexes her left arm. “Apparently. Hey, do you know what that was?”

 

“I have my suspicions, but I will need to examine it closer. Where is the vermin?”

 

“Out in the foyer,” she reaches out a hand to steady him when he stumbles, and she’s alarmed by how clammy he is.

 

You only get that clammy with fear sweat. She knows this. “Kid, what’s wrong?”

 

He brushes off her hands. “Nothing. I am fine.”

 

Now she _knows_ he’s lying. “Loki,” she says warningly as they make their way to the foyer.

 

“Let it be, Stephanie,” he snaps. “I have no desire to discuss it.”

 

“Fair,” she mutters, holding open the door and he goes through, kneeling by the creature’s corpse.

 

Loki kneels by it, poking at it boredly. “It looks like if you crossed a facehugger and, like, maybe Saint Walker, that’s what you’d get,” she tells him.

 

“I have no idea what either of those things are,” he says absently. “But this is not good.”

 

“When is it _ever_?”

 

“It is a Night Mare.”

 

“Beg your pardon?”

 

He stands, slowly, shoving his hands in his pockets and facing her, his eyes bleak. “A Night Mare. The pet of Nightmare, a Fear Lord, it creates its victim’s worst fear in a dream state, making the victim so terrified that they cannot remember they are dreaming,” he stares down at it. “In return, the Night Mare returns that fear to its master, and Nightmare feeds on it.”

 

“Oh god,” she says, numb, knowing the effects on prolonged terror on the human body. “What happens if it feeds on _kids?”_

“What happens if it feeds on warriors who are blooded in battle?” Loki returns, kicking the Night Mare slightly. “I believe you mortals call it ‘post-traumatic stress disorder?’”

 

“And if an entire culture is built on that need—”

 

“Then Nightmare has enough food to mount an assault on the Nine Realms.” Loki begins to pace. “How did they get out?”

 

She points at him. “What do you mean, _how did they get out_?”

 

“They were forcibly locked away, put into stasis millennia ago. Odin All-Father was the one to seal them away the first time, because only he had the magickal reserves to do so. Even the All-Mother doesn’t--.”

 

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Look, kid, I’ve proved they can be killed. We just need to wake up the warriors--.”

 

“Their spirits are eternal,” he replies. “Once their host dies, their spirit is transported back to the Realm of All-Being, where a new body is forged for them and return. Their population never decreases, but neither does it decrease. Night Mares are a fact of the universe.”

 

“That whole renewal process—how long does it take?”

 

“I do not know, but the Realm of All-Being is a wholly different plane than this. It takes time to travel the planes of existence. Perhaps...a day?”

 

“That gives us an opportunity,” she tells him. “Although the whole undying thing? That could have been mentioned, like, _at the beginning_.”

 

Loki pinches the bridge of his nose. “This will not end well.”

 

\--

 

They wake the All-Mother first, because Stephanie firmly believes in handing over control to the Powers That Be. Sif is with them (Ikol says snidely that she is hoping their power will somehow rub off on her, but he ignores the magpie), and Stephanie appears to be enjoying smashing the Night Mares off the women.

 

He’s flicking through his StarkPhone, trying to figure out how far the Night Mares have gotten. Their presence makes it very, very easy for one to fall asleep, and it will make news if any city or town suddenly disappears off the radar due to widespread unconsciousness.

 

It _looks_ like Asgardia could be the only one hit, but he thinks, as his stomach knots, that it is entirely likely Broxton has been hit as well. But only those two, and therefore, they can be contained until the Night Mares are dealt with.

 

Gaea’s child awakens, screaming.

 

Freyja and Iðunn, however, merely blink awake, as though Night Mares sitting upon them is an everyday occurrence. And Sif growls at the dead vermin like she wishes _she_ could kill them.

 

“What has occurred to release the Night Mares?” Freyja demands once everyone is mostly coherent and Stephanie has ceased exterminating the Night Mares. Her glee has...diminished. Substantially.

 

“I have no idea,” Loki replies. It is clear she is asking him, specifically, but even when he was his older self he would never have risked something he could not control the outcome of.

 

Sif’s mouth twists. “I believe...Thor may have something to do with it,” she says reluctantly. “He was to meet with Hreidmar somewhere Nidavellir. This only occurred _after_ he was gone.”

 

Loki’s throat closes and he swallows with difficulty. Stephanie beats him to a response. “Wait, if this is as bad as everyone keeps saying--.”

 

“And it is,” the All-Mother and Sif chorus.

 

“—wouldn’t Thor know, like, _not_ to wake up the Night Mares?”

 

“It is possible that he did it without realization,” Freyja concedes.

 

“So, better question,” Stephanie continues, “how do we put them back?”

 

“They are not a piece of crockery to return to their place on a shelf once it has served its purpose,” Sif argues.

 

“Maybe not,” Stephanie is running out of patience. He can see it in the way she’s clenching her fist in the skirt of her gown, “but isn’t there something we _can_ do?”

 

Freyja purses her lips. “I am not yet certain.”

 

Which is, of course, cue for the green misty-ness of a portal to appear and Amora the Enchantress, along with an overly-large grey muscled man holding a severed head— _is that Dr. Blake_?—to jump through it into the meeting room.

 

“Amora,” Sif says disdainfully.

 

Amora sniffs in Sif’s direction, before bowing to the All-Mother. “I bring dire news, All-Mother. The Night Mares are free throughout all the realms, including the Land of Hel. I have just awoken the Lady Hela, and even her subjects are under their sway.”

 

“Has Nightmare made any movements yet?” Loki asks.

 

Amora glances over at him and her eyes widen. “ _Loki_?”

 

Stephanie not-so-subtly takes a step and slides in between them. “Stuff happened, Loki ended up a kid, it’s a really long story,” she says with a smile, though Loki knows her well enough to know she is being condescending. “I’m sure we can get through it later.”

 

“A _mortal_?”

 

“I swear, if one more person comments on the state of my heartbeat, I will stab something,” Stephanie informs the air.

 

“You can try,” Amora says viciously.

 

The grey creature behind her rumbles in agreement as Stephanie’s pose locks into a fighting one. Freyja claps her hands. “Enough, you two. Lady Stephanie, I apologize, it will not occur again. Amora, has Nightmare made any movements?”

 

Amora stops glaring at Stephanie long enough to answer. “Not as of yet, though I believe there have been rumblings from the Court of Mephisto.”

 

Freyja sighs. “We will have to treat with him.”

 

“Is that such a good idea?” Amora purses her lips. “He _does_ have more power than you, and he knows it.”

 

“Mephisto can be bargained with. Nightmare cannot,” Gaea says quietly.

 

He sees Stephanie file that away and absurdly wonders why, before focusing on what is going on. “First things first, we need to close off Broxton and Asgardia from the rest of the world, prevent Night Mares from entering the mortal realm,” Sif is listing, looking to the All-Mother for approval.

 

“Loki and I can do that,” Amora cuts in. She smiles at Loki, and it is a smile he remembers, full of subtle promises and possible threats.

 

“Not an option,” Stephanie says immediately. Her hackles are up. “If you’re called the Enchantress, can’t you summon the power to block it off by yourself?”

 

“Hear hear,” says the severed head of Dr. Blake.

 

Everyone ignores him.

 

“Night Mares are primal beings, which you would know if you weren’t so disgustingly mortal, or did you think that painting so titled came from nowhere? I cannot fight against nature, merely redirect it, and it requires a great deal of power and a subtle mind.”

 

“Both of which you have,” Sif points out, crossing her arms. The All-Mother looks politely interested.

 

“Two magicians are better than one,” Amora says smoothly.

 

Stephanie glances at him. They both know he has little magic.

 

“Loki has little magic,” Iðunn tells Amora. Sif takes a step back, and it is an interesting reaction from her. Would she not be glad that Loki has little power?

 

“Still, he can act as a reservoir while I do the actual work,” Amora tells them, her voice crisp and slightly mocking. “He is young—he has the energy.”

 

“No,” Stephanie says again.

 

He reaches out, tugs on her skirt. She turns to him, leaning down slightly to listen to him. “What she says is true,” he says seriously, his nerves on edge. “Night Mares are an integral part of the universe. They were born when it was. She can only redirect them, and for that, she will need help. I will be fine.”

 

“I’m going with you,” Stephanie says stubbornly.

 

“No,” he says in unison with Amora. “It is a delicate process,” he adds, “and can easily go awry. Stephanie, you are not a magician. Your energy would not be conducive to the process.”

 

Sif lays a gentle hand on her arm. “I need your assistance, Lady Stephanie.”

 

She nods in reply, if unhappily, and her eyes burn with anger at Amora and at Loki.

 

“Come,” Amora touches his shoulder, gesturing for the grey giant person to follow them through another portal, this time landing outside of Broxton. She summons a large box of salt, “Self-replenishing,” she explains, and bids the grey giant person to circle the entirety of Broxton and Asgardia.

 

“He is quite fond of symmetry,” Amora says thoughtfully. “He may create Giotto’s _O_.”

 

“I...am not entirely sure how I feel about that,” he admits, waiting for the giant thing to come back around. “He seems rather mindless.”

 

“In some respects, he is.” Amora’s smile is sultry and his stomach knots. “But in others, he...isn’t.”

 

“My eyes!” says the severed head of Dr. Blake.

 

“I can always remove them,” Ikol tells him, bating and digging his toes into Loki’s shoulder.

 

Dr. Blake says, “No thanks, I’m good.”

 

Amora glances at the head and then at Loki, and then she shrugs, summoning a green witch-light. “Go faster, my darling,” she calls to the wind.

 

Loki sighs and sits down. “We could be a while.”

 

Amora summons a seat and perches on it, crossing one leg in front of the other. “So, Loki, tell me—why _do_ you have a mortal pet? It’s the gossip from Hel to Midgard.”

 

“Who has been gossiping in Hel?” he asks suspiciously, fear clenching around his heart. _Not Mephisto, not Mephisto._

“People here and there. You’d think they have nothing better to do than talk,” Amora’s smile is wicked, and she knows that he wants the information she possesses. She’ll make him work for it.

 

“No, indeed. If the inhabitants of the Nine Realms stopped talking, the universe would fall in,” he says distantly.

 

Amora laughs. “I will tell you that the Lady Hela likes her.”

 

“I am certain that will reassure her.” Actually, it will. But Amora doesn’t need to know that.

 

The grey giant thing lumbers back into view, pouring salt in a completed circle. Amora stands up, vanishing her seat and the grey giant thing finishes, picking up the severed head of Dr. Blake and stepping inside the circle. Loki copies it.

 

“Give me your hand,” Amora says, her voice full of power. He offers his left hand and she clasps it with her right, raising their joined hands and beginning to chant.

 

The salt begins to rise and glow with silver witch-light. The aura, when he pushes at it, pushes back. It is a sealing spell—what is in, remains in. The border can be crossed going in, but no one can go out.

 

There is a tugging sensation from within him, the unfurling of his limited magical energy and passing it to Amora via their joined hands. His left hand begins to tingle and then to burn, and he winces. “Amora, my hand—“

 

“Silence,” she hisses, her eyes beginning to glow green. The burning intensifies, and he feels like his vitality is being sucked from him. Amora finishes the incantation with a shout and drops his hand, and the salt circle glows furiously and stays at roughly waist height on him, or right around three and a half feet. Maybe less. He has not measured his height.

 

He tears off his glove and examines his hand. The skin is blistered and smoking slightly, and the glove is a complete loss. He tucks it into his belt, reaching up and putting his hood over his head.

 

Amora is breathing harshly, her bosom heaving. He’s not trying to notice, but she makes it nearly impossible.

 

Stephanie would likely smack him upside the head for that remark.

 

“We must return to the All-Mother,” he says when it appears she has caught her breath. “Perhaps there is a plan.”

 

“We have placed a thin bandage on an arterial bleed,” she says—optimistically, he thinks. “We will be lucky if there is a plan at all.”

 

\--

 

“Come with me to the armory,” Sif directs, leaving the audience chamber of the All-Mother behind and nearly flying down the stairs. Steph curses her dress as she picks it up carefully, following behind.

 

“There may be some sort of spell to bind the Night Mares to the Realm of All-Being,” Sif says, her words coming fast as they turn a corner and go down another flight of stairs. “But it will require all magicians in Asgardia to work in concert, something has not occurred for quite some time.”

 

“So, Amora, the All-Mother, Loki--.”

 

“There are a few others. You have not met them.” Sif pulls open an oaken door, gesturing Steph inside as she grabs a torch. “The All-Mother will be sending out summons presently.”

 

Steph holds in her gasp as the torchlight falls on the walls of the armory. Axes, swords, staves, knives—every medieval weapon you can imagine is here.

 

“Are you familiar with a sword?” Sif inquires, shoving open a trunk.

 

“Not...really?”

 

“Take this,” it is a short sword, maybe a foot and a half, two feet in length. Cass would know what the term for it is.  “Also, this.” Sif passes her a couple of daggers, and Steph hitches up her skirt to place them in the garters that come with the knives. As Sif rifles through another trunk, a black velvet bag catches the torchlight, and Steph walks towards it, curious.

 

Inside the bag are finely-wrought throwing knives, with runes she can’t read etched onto the blade. She hefts one—they’re of a similar weight to her Batarangs. She throws it against the wall, and it sticks, right between a two-headed axe and a spear. She goes to retrieve it. “Hey, Sif, can I use these?” She brandishes the knife, and Sif’s face...freezes.

 

“Yes, of course,” she says after a moment. “But I would be careful with their use. They were made with one person in mind, and they have been known to turn against any other who uses them, thus the black velvet bag.” She busies herself with grabbing an axe and a spear.

 

“Who were they made for?”

 

Sif’s face looks haunted. “Someone who was here a very long time ago. He—changed, preferred other weapons, for there were those who said those knives were a coward’s weapon, suitable only for women and,” Sif adds in a word that Steph’s never heard, “and he began to learn the sword after that, despite the fact that these knives suited him better. He was always a knife in the dark, not a sword glimmering with light.”

 

Steph has a pretty good guess as to whom Sif is talking about.

 

She isn’t exactly sure how many knives are in the bag—it clinks a lot, so more than like, four—so she hitches the strap over her shoulder and follows Sif out.

 

Amora and Loki have returned. Amora is seated with her grey giant thing at her back and Loki is skulking behind the All-Mother. As she hurries over to him, her thigh warms and tingles. She stops, places a hand on it, and feels the crisp edge of thick paper tucked in her garter

 

She pulls it out of her garter, swallowing dryly, as the postcard that guaranteed her entrance into Asgardia unfurls in her hand.

 

_How_?

 

“Did you grab that on your way back here?” Loki pops up in front of her, examining the card with his hands clasped behind his back.

 

“No, it just—suddenly appeared.” She glowers at it.

 

Amora appears next to them, frowning. “How did a _mortal_ end up with psychic paper?”

 

_I’m going to stab someone, I’m so going to stab someone_. “Gift, actually,” Steph snarks, tucking it back into her garter—or trying to. Amora’s hand darts out, clutching her wrist and turning it over so she can look at it.

 

“Let go,” Steph warns.

 

Amora ignores her, looking over the postcard. She ‘hmms’ thoughtfully to herself. Steph’s arm clenches. “I said, _let go_.”

 

Amora let her go, a strange smile playing around the corner of her mouth. “You have strange allies, Lady Stephanie. I would be wary of the one who gave this to you. I doubt they mean you good will.”

 

Loki looks between at the two of them.

 

Steph feels a snarl starting to form in her chest, but she restrains it with effort. “Thank you very much for your concern, but I’m fine.”

 

“Oh, I sincerely doubt you will be.”

 

Amora leaves them to go conference with the All-Mother (she and Sif circle each other like territorial cats, it’s amusing) and Steph rubs at her wrist absently, looking down.

 

In a swirling green script, quickly fading, there was a message. She peers at it, and makes out, _When this is all over, I would like to talk with you_.

 

She snorts. As _if_.

 

She and Loki rejoin the conference in time to hear, “So, that’s settled. We will get the magicians together and force the traces from the Realm of All-Being to summon the Night Mares back from whence they came. In the meantime, Lady Sif, you should take Lady Stephanie and free the mortals of Broxton from the Night Mares.” Freyja nods as Gaea cradles her child, who is whimpering non-stop.

 

“Very well, my lady,” Sif bows. Steph clumsily copies her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Amora cover her mouth and laugh silently.

 

Yeah, well, fuck you too.

 

Amora reminds her of every girl that has ever mocked her for her dad’s stellar life decisions, of every Jordanna who makes it like being poor is funny for the not-poor  (right, because being poor is _such a laugh_ , you should try it!), and okay, maybe Amora’s okay, but she has to stake out her territory or something.

 

Or maybe she’s just a bitch.

 

Cass would probably cut in with some kind of quiet comment about how Amora’s body language means she’s an Alpha female or something.

 

She misses Cass.

 

“So, while Sif and I are exploring the intrepid areas of Broxton for various forms of facehuggers, what exactly will be going on here? Should Sif and I bring the facehuggers here?”

 

She sees Freyja mouth ‘facehugger’ to Iðunn, who giggles.

 

“Leave them be,” Gaea orders, jiggling her baby gently. “If the spell is done correctly, then they will be tugged from this realm to the Realm of All-Being.”

 

“And if it’s not?”

 

“Mephisto will be invited to treat with us to bargain with Nightmare on the Universe’s behalf,” Freyja says unhappily.

 

Yeah, she sympathizes. Mephisto creeps her out too.

 

“It will not come to that,” Amora says confidently, laying a gentle hand on Freyja’s arm. “I assure you, it will _not_.”

 

“Come, Lady Stephanie,” Sif offers her arm. “We have the good people of Broxton to protect.”

 

This...probably isn’t going to end well.

 

\--

 

They’ve just about finished clubbing to death every Night Mare that was sitting on the ‘good people of Broxton,’ when Sif freezes at her right, eyes wide and unseeing. If Steph didn’t know better, she’d say that Sif fell asleep standing with her eyes open. She turns to try to snap her out of it, but there’s a wash of cold water (without the, y’know, dampness) over her and then she’s stuck too.

 

Black smoky-ness billows in front of her until she’s staring at a humanoid male, except his hair keeps _moving_ and he literally looks like he belongs in a monster film.

 

“You must be Nightmare,” she says flatly.

 

“Oh, you _are_ clever.” His voice is high, but not really pitchy. She doesn’t think it’s a falsetto, but there’s a crackle to it that implies it’s an affectation.

 

“Not really. You made it _really_ obvious.”

 

“Oh, did I?” He circles her like he’s a predator.

 

“Yep. Also, am I supposed to be terrified right now? ‘Cause, frankly, I’m kinda not.”

 

“Oh, I am aware that my appearance, while startling, is not entirely frightening to those above the age of five. No, the fear of Nightmare is the insidiousness, that I _know_ you, to know your fears so intimately.” He stops in front of her, placing the tip of a pointed finger against what would be his lip.

 

She thinks.

 

“I must admit, I am curious about you because Loki does _not_ have mortal companions. Yet he has you, and you are clearly willing to fight for him, because in the middle of that lovely, lovely dream that provided me with _such_ a taste of who he is, you woke him up. _You_. A mortal who is somehow immune to my dear pets.” He trails a fingertip down her cheek, and her chest is tight and hot, but she just stares at him.

 

He laughs. “There is such _rebellion_ in you. You are the one who has never understood why people describe fear as crippling and cold. Fear is always hot for you, and it inspires you to action. You do not allow nightmares, but you always seek ways to control them.”

 

“That’s very interesting. Can I go now?”

 

“Not yet,” he drawls, his tone becoming deeper and crueler for a moment. His voice reverts back when he continues, “Why is it, exactly, that you only did the killing move after that dreadful assassin threatened your mother? He was certainly a threat to you, but it was only after your mother was threatened that you became a killer. Why?”

 

“Oh, maybe because my mother’s had enough trouble for a lifetime,” Steph says lightly, a metallic taste covering her tongue.

 

“Oh, I know what it is,” he creeps closer, places a hand on her chest and then forces his fingertips _in_ , and she gasps as his fingertips brush the underside of her heart, and then he grabs some kind of nodule and tugs it out. She feels her chest, and there’s no injury, but she can’t get over the feeling of his fingers inside her heart.

 

He examines the nodule, a dark, crimson pulsing _thing_ , with a smirk. “It is because you do not think that you yourself are worthy of rescue. Everyone who was ever in a position to protect you failed—your father, your mother, your teachers, your dear boyfriend, that Batman creature, the Oracle—they did not protect you when the circumstances demanded it.” He kisses the nodule, his tongue snaking around it, and wow, that is gross. “Only one, Cass, thought you were worthy of protection and of rescue. And now you are in a place to rescue her, but you are blind to how it can be done, and it _burns_ you.”

 

“Wow, you should try that trick at parties. It’d be a real laugh.”

 

“Your fears are not nearly so concrete, or perhaps I am unable to pin them down like I can to your companions,” he sounds thoughtful, and he backs away to perch on a stool that materializes out of nowhere. “Sif, for example, fears rape. In her position, if she were to be violated, especially on the battlefield or by her comrades, she can expect no protection or vengeance on her behalf. She has transgressed against what protective measures that exist for women in Asgardia, and by placing herself at the side of Thor, to go against Thor by attacking first his friend, and later his lover, is to invite demise. But the government itself will not stir on her behalf, not even the All-Mother. But you—you fear shadowy figures that hide themselves within your dreams, and I cannot quite pin it down.” He pouts, and okay, that’s weird and she never wants to see that again. “Perhaps because this is not your home dimension, your dreams are on a slightly different frequency than for those that this is their home dimension.”

 

“Maybe,” she says noncommittally.

 

“Oh, you will be such a delight,” he assures her. “Your fear is _delicious_ —such a different taste to what I am accustomed! And added to that, the current attitude of fear has been greatly accentuated by the existence and then death of the Serpent. Globalized civilizations fear so much more than civilizations that do not have the same access to technology, because fear is so far off for them. They fear the abstract, which is where my power, frankly, _shines_. Archetypally I can succeed, but the abstract just provides so much more. It’s enlarging on concepts, not images.” He sniffs. “My Night Mares rely on the images, but since globalization, conceptual thinking is just so much more _in_.”

 

“How fascinating,” she deadpans.

 

“No need to sound so bored, dearest. I’m showing you the tricks to my trade.”

 

“You plunged your hand in my chest and have been monologuing about fear to figure out what _I_ fear. Or did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

 

“I had wondered if you would,” he admits, getting up to peer at her. “You are clever.”

 

“Oh really?” She punches him in the face. “I’m so glad you think so.”

 

The background melts together and then she’s standing in Broxton again, blinking at the sunlight. Sif is just awaking too, and there’s sweat pouring down her temples. She grips her sword. “Lady Stephanie, you are unhurt?”

 

She examines her fist. There’s no telltale bruising or bleeding that comes from hitting someone without protection, but her hand aches anyway. “As well as can be expected. You?”

 

“My heart is troubled,” Sif admits, stretching slightly. “It was unnerving.”

 

“Second that,” she mutters, turning to follow Sif out of quiet Broxton to head back to Asgardia. “Hey, what did you see?”

 

“What I fear,” Sif replies, nonplussed. “And you?”

 

“I had a visit from—my past, in a way,” she tacks on hastily. She doesn’t think she wants to tell Sif that she had a visit from Nightmare. “It was, like you said, unnerving.” Sticking-a-hand-in-your-chest kind of unnerving.

 

“Yes indeed,” Sif says distantly as they enter Asgardia and head towards the audience chamber of the All-Mother.

 

The magicians are congregated, eating food in the way Asgardians do (like everything tastes delicious but will disappear if it’s not pinned down), and there’s a lot of smiling and laughing, so obviously whatever spell they did worked. Loki’s skulking behind the All-Mother, nibbling on a pastry. Sif takes a deep breath, pins a smile to her face and enters the room, nodding at the magicians but making a beeline for the buffet table nonetheless.

 

Steph maneuvers around the rest of the people to grab a goblet of cider (it’s freaking amazing in Asgardia), and move over to Loki.

 

She wraps an arm around his shoulder and he tucks himself into her, and the kid is so exhausted, her heart hurts. “The cider’s alcoholic,” he warns her.

 

“Just like everything else here,” she grouses, but it’s light, not real complaining. She takes a sip anyway, and the brandy and the mulled spices are an interesting combination. It’s a fiery taste, and it warms her all the way down to her toes.

 

Not joking about that, by the way.

 

“It worked,” Loki tells her, closing his eyes and leaning against her. “There was a lot of screaming—the Night Mares did not wish to return to the Realm of All-Being—but it worked.” He makes a thoughtful noise. “I wonder why Nightmare didn’t fight us.”

 

“He visited me in Broxton,” she says quietly. God, she’s tired. “He said something about valuing nightmare concepts over nightmare imagery, which is what the Night Mares depend on.”

 

“Nightmare _visited you_?” If she weren’t so tired and groggy, she’d be amused at how appalled he sounds. “Stephanie—“

 

“He’s more interested in you than in me,” she interrupts, yawning. “Though he’s curious why my fears aren’t as concrete as everyone else’s in this dimension. Said something about a different mental frequency.”

 

“That could be useful.”

 

“Mm,” she agrees. “Kid, I’m about to pass out, and the cider didn’t help. I’m calling it a night.”

 

“I suppose I should take you back to the tower, since you obviously need the help,” he says, long-suffering like he does.

 

As he says this, the doors to the audience chamber burst open and Thor walks in, with a green person. “That’s Hreidmar,” Loki prompts her when she looks lost for longer than .03 seconds.

 

“Ah.”

 

Freyja stands, placing her goblet of wine down on the table. “Thor, where have you been?”

 

“I believe that is my fault, All-Mother,” Hreidmar bows. His voice just a tad nasally—essentially how every lawyer Steph ever talked to sounds. “As is the situation that you and your magicians just negated.”

 

They all see Freyja stiffen, and Gaea’s eyes narrow as she continues gently rocking her baby. Only Iðunn seems at ease, examining her nails.

 

“The spell that the All-Father put in place to bind the Night Mares was weakening. The cave in which they were sealed is a popular place to hide items of great value, for many reasons,” he stops to push up his glasses, allowing Freyja to interject.

 

“But are they not aware that it is dangerous?”

 

Hreidmar looks at her over the rim of his glasses. “We trusted in the magic of the All-Father, my lady, and those would hide those items would usually have a strong reason to place it in such a location.”

 

“Go on, about the spell weakening,” Iðunn says casually, crossing one leg over the other and leaning forward, resting her elbow on her knee and holding her chin. She looks like she’s trying to be thoughtful.

 

“Those same persons who were hiding those items were starting to disappear over the last century of so. The wall that had sealed the Night Mares had broken down, but they were still bound to the place. When I took Lord Thor there,” he bows towards Thor, “the Night Mares were able to pass the seal on the location and attack him. I have reason to believe that they did this deliberately, because it enraged him and he ‘took the fight to them,’ smashing the last barriers of the seal that the All-Father put in place.” Hreidmar takes a deep breath, coolly looking over the All-Mother.

 

Steph has to admire his courage. He’d messed up, but if he says what she thinks he’ll say, he did it intentionally so he would get the result that actually happened.

 

“This, of course, allowed the rest of the Night Mares to escape to all corners of the Nine Realms. However, it was necessary.”

 

“It was necessary to bring strength to Nightmare?” Freyja demands quietly.

 

Hreidmar doesn’t blink. “Your spell-work, in combination with other magicians, could do what the All-Father could not. In addition, since Asgardia now inhabits what I believe the mortals call a ‘liminal space,’ it allows you to see other options, take other actions, that living in a defined space like Asgard forbade you from taking before. You sealed the Night Mares in the Realm of All-Being. They cannot escape that place, for it is where they are born and where they return after they die. In essence, their spirits belong there where they do not belong elsewhere.”

 

“That’s Limbo.” Steph didn’t even realize she’d spoken until the entire group congregated there turns to look at her.

 

Hreidmar nods to her. “That is one term for it. And you are?”

 

“Stephanie Brown, and wait, can you go into more detail than that? Are there other entities in it? Will the Night Mares affect them?”

 

“These are odd questions,” Hreidmar says slowly.

 

“Please, just answer them,” she’s distantly aware that her voice has taken on a pleading quality, but she doesn’t care. _Cass, oh Cass, if they hurt you I will **destroy** them._

“I have no reason to believe that the Night Mares can attack anyone unless they are in a defined space,” Hreidmar says slowly, polishing his glasses. “Since they are born from liminal spaces, I assumed that it is in liminal spaces that they cannot harm.”

 

“But they attacked Asgardia, and you said that it’s a liminal space.”

 

“In the metaphorical sense. Asgardia is above the land of Broxton, which is a part of the United States, but Asgardia claims no citizenship of either. Therefore, in a metaphorical sense, Asgardia does not exist. The Realm of All-Being, however, is a literal liminal space, because it exists everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Asgardia is defined because it has physical features and people living here. Those who are in the Realm of All-Being do not currently exist, not as we think of existence.”

 

“So, could you _go_ to the Realm of All-Being?”

 

“There are paths,” Hreidmar acknowledges, “but it would be fatal for any but an Asgardian or Vanir. My apologies, my lady, for whomever you have lost.”

 

Steph stiffens. “I beg your pardon?” Gotta stop drinking the cider. Girl, you’re starting to talk like them.

 

“This is quite interesting,” Freyja says softly, dangerously. “But the fact still remains that you used Thor to free the Night Mares, giving Nightmare more strength and power, and you manipulated us into walling them up in the Realm of All-Being.”

 

“Yes, those actions I am guilty of,” Hreidmar’s glasses flash. “But I say this with all due sincerity—that spell would have broken sooner or later, and it was best that it broke now, since you have the cachet to summon for the magicians to assist you, and so I took what course I saw had the most favorable outcome.”

 

“Everyone except Thor and Hreidmar, please leave,” Freyja rules. Steph and Loki turn to go, but Iðunn stops them.

 

“Stay, listen,” she says pleasantly. “You might learn something.” Freyja shoots her sister a look, but closes her eyes and sighs.

 

It’s as good as a yes, so she and Loki hang out off by the side. Loki looks very excited about the proceedings, if the rate that he’s muttering under his breath is anything to go by. He’s talking too quickly for Steph to pick up anything, but she has to wonder if he’s speaking to Ikol, a person that no one can see but him and Leah.

 

She puts it out of her mind. This man may know how to help her find Cass.

 

“We cannot approve of your actions,” Freyja says once the room is clear and the doors are completely closed.

 

“I am aware of that,” Hreidmar agrees.

 

“However, your logic rings true, and so we cannot punish you for taking such an action, at least, cannot punish you to the full extent of our power.” Freyja looks at Iðunn and then at Gaea, before looking back at Hreidmar. “So, this is our sentence. For the space of a century, you must live in Asgardia and represent our interests. I believe the mortals call it an ‘in-house lawyer.’ You will maintain Asgardia’s legal library and know our precedents, and we will call upon you to represent our interests in the legal arena.”

 

“That is fair,” Hreidmar says.

 

“And Lord Thor,” Thor stirs. He’d been listening without a lot of reaction, and Steph wonders what the big guy saw while under the influence, since he was that out of it. “Tomorrow, you will leave to work with your Avengers. You are not to return to Asgardia for three months.”

 

“Yes, All-Mother,” he bows his head.

 

Steph mutters to Loki, “How is that fair? He was manipulated into it.”

 

“The actions he took were his own,” Loki whispers back. “Hreidmar knows about my brother’s temper, and it is not hard to tempt him to action with it.”

 

“You sound like you know from experience.”

 

He smiles at her, and she hadn’t known he could do predatory expressions until now. “I _am_ Loki.”

 

“How exciting,” she deadpans, patting him on the head.

 

“ _If_ Thor had taken this action by himself, he could have been punished more extremely,” Loki shifts next to her, “but three months is nothing.”

 

She watches Thor, who is clearly struggling to be aware of his surroundings as the All-Mother dismisses them. “Hey, kid, go help your older brother.”

 

“And you?”

 

Steph glances at her wrist, but there’s no green ink to be found. “I think I have a date.”

 

\--

 

Getting Thor back to his chambers is hard. Loki is very small in comparison to his older brother, and being under from the Night Mares for such a long time (and he doubts it not that it was a long time, because had Thor been aware of what was going on, Thor would have flown to defend Asgardia and Broxton) has clearly damaged him.

 

“Help me with my armor,” Thor grunts once Loki deposits him on his bed.

 

“I am not your squire, brother—“

 

“Please, Loki.”

 

Loki would have done it anyway (this is his _brother_ ), but the quiet ‘please’ undoes him completely. “Yes, brother.” He climbs onto the bed, clumsily undoing the straps of his breastplate on his shoulders and his sides (there is a lot of moving around involved). He unsnaps the cape from the breastplate. “Sit up, Thor.” When Thor does so, he tugs away the breastplate and the cape.

 

He hangs them both up, shaking off the dust off the red cape. He returns to his brother with his nightshirt in hand, and Thor rouses himself enough to dress for bed.

 

He’s expecting Sif to come in at some point, perhaps to exclaim over the unfairness of Thor’s sentence, or to scold him for not thinking through his actions. But perhaps not—Sif is close to the All-Mother, and their relationship has cooled significantly since Thor came back from the God-Eater.

 

Thor sprawls back on the bed. “Tell me of the work of the magicians.”

 

It is not what Thor usually wishes to hear, since magicians work through shadow and proxies, and rarely engage in person. “Are you certain?”

 

“Please, Loki.”

 

Thor...is not usually this polite in his requests. Slowly, haltingly, he starts with the All-Mother calling them together, his and Amora’s protection spell around Broxton, Stephanie and Sif going to Broxton to roust the Night Mares from the town, and Amora, Iðunn, Gaea, and a few other magicians, “You wouldn’t know them,” to open the Realm of All-Being just long enough to summon the Night Mares back, and finally how everyone finished up.

 

The spellwork had been intense, and he hadn’t even been a part of it. Accessing the Realm of All-Being may not be beyond the Aesir or the Vanir, but it was hard on them, and force-banishing the entire group of Night Mares that were plaguing the Nine Realms back to the Realm of All-Being was exhausting. It was amazing that the All-Mother managed to stay coherent long enough to question Hreidmar and Thor.

 

“You were able to assist?”

 

“I helped out Amora,” and it was not pleasant, “but I did not have the necessary skill to assist the All-Mother. In my new incarnation, I have little magic to my name.”

 

Thor sighs. “So much has changed.”

 

“That is the nature of existence,” he says hesitantly.

 

“Loki, promise me one thing,” Thor says, reaching out and grasping his wrist, lightly, but it’s still a hold.

 

“What is it?”

 

“If you ever feel the urge to engage in malicious behavior, or you know that it may occur, tell me? If only so that I may try to dissuade you.”

 

He stares at his brother, but then smiles slightly. “Oh Thor, my dear, dear older brother, never doubt that. I will certainly let _you_ know.”

 

\--

 

Steph pushes aside a frond-y thing as she enters Amora’s—well, ‘lair’ is legitimately the best word for it.

 

“Yes, please, come in,” Amora says tonelessly, mashing something that smells sharp with a pestle in a mortar.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I miss that oh-so-gracious invitation to your digs?” she pauses a moment, glancing at her wrist. “Which was actually kind of cool, not going to lie.”

 

“It’s a little spell I perfected for when I need to communicate with someone with no evidence left behind. It has other uses, but it is rather limited in scope.” Amora falls silent for a moment, before shrugging her shoulders and adding some kind of brown spice to her mashed up—stuff. “But such work is the stuff the shadow world is made of.”

 

“Is that reference supposed to mean something?”

 

“Oh, were you unaware that the All-Mother has in place a spy network?”

 

“That doesn’t exactly surprise me, but the ‘shadow world?’ Keep in mind the only time I’ve heard that term is when it refers to the black market and its contacts in the city I grew up in.”

 

Amora laughs slightly.  “Oh, the mortal world and their jests. I am the All-Mother’s spymaster. Old Odin would be rolling in his grave, which remarkably fills me with joy.”

 

Somehow...yeah, no, she’s surprised. She turns to look at Amora. “Sorry if I’m being a silly mortal with jests and everything, but that position didn’t exactly strike me as something you should just trumpet to like everyone around you.”

 

“But I didn’t trumpet it to everyone. I told you. Slight difference there.”

 

“That’s exciting and all, but why are you telling me?”

 

“Have you decided to stay?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Have. You. Decided. To. Stay? In this realm, I mean. Do you have a place to return to there?”

 

“Are you recruiting me?” So this is what it feels like to be wanted.

 

“You are in a rather privileged place—you have Loki’s confidence and affection. If you—“

 

“No.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“I will not report on Loki to the All-Mother, and I will not report on him to you. He deserves his secrets and my silence. If that was your offer, save it.” She taps the table for emphasis and turns to go.

 

“Wait.”

 

Bingo.

 

“I will not deny that you have the right temperament for the work,” Amora says, finally putting aside the mortar and pestle. “You have an easy manner and you joke far more often than you are honest about what you really think, so people overlook you, even here in Asgardia. The most I heard about you before formal introductions was that you were odd, but safe. Even I was fooled, but then you ran into Nightmare. And punched him in the face, and I realized I had underestimated you.”

 

“Am I supposed to be impressed? Like, _ooh_ , Asgardia’s spymaster wants me, so _ooh_ , I should totally bend over backwards to win her?”

 

“It would be nice,” Amora says sarcastically, before pasting a smile on her face. “I commend you on your skills, which is rare, for me.”

 

“You know, the funny thing is, everything I’ve heard about _you_ has said what a poisonous bi—well, you know.”

 

“It throws off suspicion as to my whereabouts if no one likes me very much,” Amora points out. “Allow me to point out something, Stephanie. This realm is not very safe, and my work protects Asgardia. I’ve caught many an assassination attempt intended for the All-Mother, Heimdall, Thor, and even Loki. But the realities of this world mean that no one will ever know of it. No one will ever sing of my accomplishments in epic poetic format,” she cocks her head. “But that is fine. I am content with that. I do my work, and I take my pleasures where I find them, what others would say of my behavior be damned. Loki understood that.”

 

“Oh, are you about to blow my mind with the fact that Loki was one of your agents pre-reincarnation?”

 

“No, he was not, but he was aware of my activities, if not the extent of them. Pre-siege, I certainly did not work for Asgardia, but I did not work for Norman Osborn either. Similar to him in that respect. It was only slightly tricky to turn my work to the angels, but easy enough with a little greasing.”

 

“And Loki? Did he turn to the ‘side of the angels’ with a little greasing?”

 

“Oh, it took him dying, but he’s finally on my side of things. Did you wonder why I could travel so freely without anyone questioning it?”

 

“Not really, since I travel with Loki,” she says pointedly.

 

“Fair enough. If you will not report on him, since you travel so extensively, will you report on what you say, about anything that could be a threat to Asgardia?”

 

“I would require training,” Steph says after a moment. Her guard is _way_ up.

 

“I would provide it.”

 

“Let me think about it,” Steph says finally. “If I can go home after my debt is paid, I just might.”

 

Amora reaches for whatever she’s working on. “Fair enough. But let me remind you, Stephanie, that paying this debt will be long. A lot can happen then. And even when it’s done? There may not be a place for you to return to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, the side story involved with repaying Hela will be a separate story, and much lighter in tone than the rest of this behemoth. I will post it on the 15th.


	3. Act 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This act and the next are the acts of cameos. Ooh, fun.
> 
> Trigger warning for violence (particularly for male on female), past references to abuse, blood, nonconsensual touching, past references to torture, and vomiting. As always, if there is triggering material that I did not reference, give me a shout-out and I'll add it.

She’s back from another book-foray in the very small bookstore of Broxton (she found another fantasy novel starring a kickass woman, and she’s starting to suspect the owner is deliberately ordering these novels from wherever just for her, which says _permanence_ like nothing else, and hey, it doesn’t hurt as much as she thinks it should) and she _really_ wants to take a nap (Loki and Leah are off causing mischief, and she has the afternoon off) when she sees the wardrobe in her room.

 

It’s not a Narnia-esque wardrobe or anything, but it’s a _wardrobe_.

 

She puts her books down on her bed and walks up to it. She’s wearing the corset from a week ago (it really is amazingly comfortable), but one of the wires is pressing a little too hard against her skin and she lifts it with the tip of her finger as her right hand works the catch on the wardrobe, and the doors fall open to show her—

 

A hell of a lot of clothes.

 

They’re in shades of purple and blue and green (wow, it’s like someone put out a _memo_ ) with some black mixed in there, and on each ‘top’ (the majority of which are long-ish tunics) there’s some sort of embroidered golden V on a black circle, either on the sleeve or the left breast pocket area. The belts (in black, brown, gold, and silver) all have the same device on the front center of the belt.  There are several dresses and skirts, and leggings, from tights to looser tights.

 

There are also a few more of the corsets and garters.

 

It is essentially the wardrobe of a woman who fights with weaponry she hides.

 

In the drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe are legit ‘undergarments,’ but they look utilitarian and comfortable, just like the corset. It’s more than a little invasive, the fact that they ostensibly have her size in every article of clothing she requires.

 

There are also two pairs of boots, one brown, one black, that come with empty sheaths for knives.

 

Steph knows whom this ‘gift’ is from. And it makes her angry, a sudden, breathless anger that knots in her chest and wraps burning brands around her body.

 

She departs the room at a fast, furious clip, not even stopping to flirt her way past That Guard. She only stops long enough to hear to him say that no, the All-Mother currently does not have an audience, and she throws open the double-doors and stomps in.

 

Freyja stands, her hand on her sword, but she relaxes when she sees it’s Steph.

 

“Where is the fire, Lady Stephanie?” Iðunn says with a smile, standing and opening her arms.

 

“Why did you give me clothes?”

 

“Ooh, do you like them?”

 

Steph’s face feels set, and it’s hard to move her mouth to speak. “What was wrong with my clothes?”

 

“We have accepted you now. Why should we not clothe you?” Gaea pats her baby’s back, and the baby is clearly colicky, if it’s complaints are anything to go by.

 

“My clothes were fine, and since when did any of your people get close enough to me to get my _measurements_?”

 

Iðunn raises a brow. “You have spent an extensive amount of time in the Healing Halls. When else did we have time? The handmaidens who work there also have training in weaving, as they should. At my request, they took your measurements and took them to the weavers.”

 

“Without my consent? You measured _my body_ while I was unconscious and unable to give consent. Legally speaking, that would be assault.”

 

“It was not intended as such—“

 

“God, it doesn’t matter what you _intended_! It’s what you _did_ that matters.”

 

Freyja holds out a hand. “Peace, Lady Stephanie. We did wrong by you, and we apologize.” There’s a way that Freyja is looking at her, a knowing way, that says she knows exactly why Steph would object to people touching her intimately while she’s asleep.

 

Steph hates her for it. She can’t be reduced to a _victim_. She’s a survivor.

 

“However, just to inform you, your armor will be a few days yet. The smithy in charge of it has been inundated with orders to assist in the last of rebuilding efforts from the failed Norn invasion and the Night Mares, and that takes precedence.”

 

“ _Armor?_ ”

 

“You have been willing to fight in our name, so let us arm for the battles you face,” Gaea says in a ‘no duh’ way. “It is only right and proper.”

 

“That was the intent behind your new clothing. When you go out into the world with Loki, you represent Asgardia, just as he does. By wearing Asgardian clothing, you proclaim without words you are an ambassador, and those who would harm him without a second’s thought would at least consider the political ramifications of harming you.” Freyja smiles one of her rare, easy smiles. “It would be synonymous with, oh, mortals bombing the embassy of another country? An act of war.”

 

“I didn’t ask you for this.”

 

“Nor should you. Since you, for all intents and purposes, are considered an Asgardian, you are under our purview. We are the All-Mother. We look after the health and safety of our children. Clothing falls under that.”

 

“And it has nothing to do with you wanting uniformity.”

 

“You _did_ mention how you disliked it that various personages would note the, ah, ‘state of your heartbeat?’” Gaea makes a thoughtful noise in the back of her throat. “Dressing like us decreases those comments tenfold. It will be noticed, but not commented upon. Asgardians are notorious for taking offense easily. That attitude will easily extend to you.”

 

“So, I dress like you, and gain diplomatic immunity. You get a more uniform community around you, and I get protection.” Steph really, really hates them right now. “I see.”

 

“There are multiple benefits,” Iðunn agrees, smiling impishly.

 

“I have a date with Sif,” she says through her teeth. “We’re sparring. This time, I _may_ not land on my ass within five seconds. If you’ll excuse me.”

 

“I’ll walk you.”

 

She stares at Freyja. “What?”

 

Freyja’s already standing up and readjusting her sword. “I said, I will walk you.” She nods to Gaea and Iðunn, before striding to Steph’s side and opening the door for her.

 

They walk in silence for a little bit. Freyja steers them, and Steph knows Asgardia well enough by now to know that Freyja’s taking her the long way around. “Do you like them?”

 

“Beg pardon?”

 

Freyja looks—almost shy, a hair short of mischievous. For the first time, Steph wonders what she would have been like as a child. Serious, like Tim, with a hidden sweet side? Or fierce like Cass, with a streak of independence no parent could train out of her? “The corsets,” she clarifies. “Do you like them?”

 

Steph runs a hand through her hair, reaching into a pocket for a hair-tie. She ties it into a ponytail as she answers, “Yeah, actually. They are amazingly comfortable, not like other corsets I’ve worn.” _Tim_.

 

Freyja smiles. “I designed them myself, for maximum coverage and security, but added comfort. The undergarments my mother pressed upon me at the proper age just did not provide adequate support,” she says archly, ruining the image by giggling slightly. “My mother had been less than pleased to find me cutting up what she had given me in my attempt to make one that would work with my training. When she was talked down from her towering rage at the wasted cloth and the expense, she and I worked together until we found a prototype that worked. When the Lady Sif expressed her desire to train as a warrior, I ensured she had a few of her own.

 

“I am aware that the mortal realm has a few misgivings regarding scars and scarification,” Freyja adds as they turn a corner, heading closer to the practice fields. “The necklines of the clothing are not low-cut, but if you so desire, they can be adjusted by the palace seamstresses.”

 

“You mean I can skankify my wardrobe?”

 

Freyja looks lost for a moment, before deciding what that means is not important and moving on. “You can adjust it as much as you like. In Asgardia, we wear our scars with pride, and we regale each other with the tales of battle in which they were won.”

 

You could...win scars. Despite everything, Steph kind of likes the idea.

 

“Torture isn’t exactly a battle,” she says quietly as they enter the practice fields and the cacophony of practicing with arms assaults their ears.

 

“It is a battle of a kind, and leaves many different kinds of wounds.” They stop at the armorer, and Freyja places a careful hand on Steph’s shoulder. “They do not weaken you, daughter of Brown.”

 

Steph looks up at her, a cold fist around her heart. “Thanks for the sentiment, but um, I kinda sorta maybe not really _broke_ under torture. I gave him what he wanted to know. In a way. So, forgive me, but—“

 

“Everyone breaks under torture. It is only a matter of time, and it does _not_ make you weak or any less than those for whom it takes longer or shorter. Like I said, it is a different kind of battle.” Freyja nods to her. “You will like your armor, I hope. We designed a sigil for you.”

 

She turns to go, and Steph calls, “What’s with the little golden V on my clothes?”

 

Freyja turns. “It is the sigil of Loki. It just means you belong to his household, nothing more.”

 

“His _household_?” But Freyja’s already gone, and Steph sighs as she starts her stretches. Asgardia is freaking _weird_.

 

\--

 

Sif stops by her and watches her throw knife after knife into moving targets.

 

If Babs had programmed these targets, they’d be saying things like, “THAT WAS A VALIANT EFFORT,” or something. Something pangs deep inside of her at the thought of Babs, and she misses her mentor.

 

“You do that well,” Sif says with approval as Steph nails another target.

 

“Roughly the same size and weight as my ‘rangs,” Steph tells her. “This isn’t new learning, it’s just—upkeep.”

 

“Fair enough,” Sif grins, and it makes her look _years_ younger. “Are you ready yet?”

 

Steph glances down the line. “Sans audience?”

 

“Even Asgardian men fall prey to what mortal men encourage,” Sif shrugs. “It is the way of things, to encourage one opponent over the other in the practice ring.”

 

“Since you asked so nicely,” Steph tells her, holstering the knives and nudging Sif’s shoulder with her own. She falls into step beside the brunette, running a knife hilt through her hands as they walk past the men who follow them in a clutch.

 

Steph hates her life.

 

Sif tosses her a set of the leather armor the Asgardians wear while they practice, and Steph does up the straps, tucking her ponytail out of the breastplate. She straps on the braces, flexing her wrists and fingers as she checks the tautness of the straps.

 

Sif’s doing the same check-ups.

 

Their dynamic is friendly, normal—Sif knocks her on her ass, she retaliates by punching her in the face, there may be a few flips involved, some knife-to-sword fighting, and Sif wins.

 

Steph’s not really looking to beat her. In that respect, Sif’s a lot like Cass. Beating isn’t the goal. Staying in the fight is.

 

Sif decides to change up the dynamic almost immediately, though. She starts with the sword, lunging to Steph’s left side (which previous experience shows that despite all of the training, Steph’s just a little slower in reaction time to attacks on her left side than her right). Steph takes a step back, throwing a knife in response.

 

Sif ducks, kicking her right leg out to knock her down. Steph jumps up (yes, like a frog, thank you Invisible Critic) and lands a few feet away (right _on_ ), throwing out two more knives. One actually manages to slice Sif’s arm as she rolls to avoid them.

 

Hey! Go me!

 

Predictably, though, this only makes Sif even more determined (thus securing Steph’s opinion that were they in a slasher film, Sif would totally be the Final Girl), and Sif lunges towards her, sword out.

 

It’s a _big_ sword, and Sif’s fast, so all Steph can do is dodge and maybe divert it with her knives. A knife can’t divert a sword strike head-on, so she maybe kinda literally dances around the huge blade, trying to sneak up under Sif’s guard to guarantee a hit to the solar plexus.

 

Sif bends over and gasps, and Steph kicks out at her shoulder, toppling her into the dirt. Before Sif can do anything, Steph’s on top of her, pinning down her arms with her shins with a knife at her throat. “Do you yield?”

 

Sif smiles. “No.” With an almighty shove (or rather, Almighty Shove, she _is_ a goddess) Steph’s up and off. She just barely manages to land properly before Sif’s a whirlwind, kicking out at her torso. Steph rolls away, nearly onto Sif’s sword, before flipping up. Sif ditches the sword and goes for flat-out physical combat, a strike here, a punch there.

 

They’ve never gotten to biting and hair-pulling. Yay?

 

Steph blocks, twists away, and grabs Sif’s wrist the next time she goes in for an open-handed strike, turning on her heel and yanking, throwing Sif over her shoulder as she rolls with it.

 

Sif blinks up at the sky. “Draw?”

 

“I’m good with that. What do you think, ten minutes?”

 

“Maybe seven,” Sif allows, taking Steph’s hand and pulling herself up. She starts dusting off the leather practice armor and sheathes her sword. “New record?”

 

“Think so,” Steph wanders over to her knives, pulling them out of the sand and wiping them off with her thin cotton shirt, sticking them back in their various sheaths.

 

The men who were watching are completely silent, and it bothers Steph more than it should. She looks up at them, and they’re just gaping. Guess the whole way she and Sif practice is kind of unknown to them. Steph’s done the whole ‘fight ‘til you drop’ kind of thing, but she’s really testing her speed and reaction time, not her strength. She’s not the strongest person in the bunch, but she can mitigate that with awesome reaction time and speed.

 

And on top of that, she and Sif _have_ done the ‘fight ‘til you drop’ thing. _She_ just prefers to do it without an audience. Sif? No clue there.

 

Steph’s smile is definitely feral when she turns to see Sif. She waggles her fingers in an exaggerated wave, before saying, “Need a shower, like, _badly._ See you later?”

 

Sif smiles just as ferally. “Of course. Tomorrow, Lady Stephanie?”

 

“Barring any emergencies, Lady Sif,” Steph bows, before taking her leave.

 

She takes a very long bath, running one of her knives through her fingers as she soaks. It’s one of the slight, ornate knives from the black velvet bag currently residing under her bed. She doesn’t practice with them, not against Sif. She’s thrown them (they have this slightly deeper whistle than other knives and ‘rangs she’s practiced with), but there’s something unsettling about them.

 

If she was feeling metaphysical, she would say it’s because she hasn’t ‘won’ them. Harry Potter was as much a part of her childhood as everyone else her age. Wand lore didn’t interest her so much as the (failed) love story between Harry and Hermione, but the idea of ‘winning’ wands stuck with her.

 

She throws the knife away in consternation and it sticks in the door, and she disappears beneath the water to rinse her hair one last time.

 

She rises out of the water and towels off, reaching for the warmth of the Asgardian clothes. Loki and Leah are hanging out at the cave, and it’s snowing outside. It’s almost Christmas (as the Asgardians consider it, _Yule_ ), and Volstagg is delighted.

 

She towels dry her hair, French-braiding it and pinning what’s left. She gets dressed, because hey, it’s snowing outside, and though the practice fields are warm-ish, it is definitely cold now.

 

As she pulls on the necessary layers, she thinks rather nostalgically about last year’s first snow, and the whole Roulette mess that ended with Dick telling her he approved and that she was doing a good job. She buttons the dress with sure fingers and yanks the hood of her cloak over her head with a little more force than necessary, pinning the cloak together with one of the Loki sigil brooches.

 

She’s a part of Loki’s _household_?

 

She fits two knives into the sheaths of her black boots, and tucks the smaller, thinner ones in various places on her person. She leaves the tower in a swirl of skirts (and oh yes, Steph’s always wanted to say that) and heads towards the cave.

 

She’s greeted by a snarling fire-breathing puppy.

 

Wait. Back up.

 

Snarling.

 

Check. “Eat your heart!”

 

Fire-breathing. “Don’t set my _cloak_ on fire, you asshole!”

 

 _Puppy_.

 

She hoists the snarling creature up in the air where it struggles, and she ducks a bit of flame. “Really?” she demands of it. “I’m not harming you. _Settle down_.”

 

That last bit...may have been said in the Outside Voice.

 

The puppy quiets immediately and stares at her, large red eyes watchful but cowed. For the moment.

 

Steph doesn’t break eye contact. “Loki? Mind explaining something?”

 

“Um, you know how we left Garm and the Hel-Wolf alone?”

 

“You have _got_ to be joking.”

 

“He is not,” Leah says, amused.

 

“How many are there?”

 

“Seven,” Loki says.

 

Steph finally looks at her charge. “You have _got_ to be _kidding_. Please. Please tell me I’m dreaming and I’m not holding a Cerberus-Hel-Wolf mix. Please, Loki.”

 

“You’re dreaming?” the kid offers, shifting from foot to foot.

 

“Dungy mortal scum sucker,” her puppy snarls.

 

“I will _drop_ you,” she informs the puppy. “Be _quiet_.”

 

The puppy snaps his jaws at her, but quiets down. She takes a moment to check, and—yep, definitely a boy. “So, plan, Loki?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You can’t keep all of them. What are you going to do with them? How will you find homes for all of them?”

 

Loki pouts.

 

“Do not give me that face,” Steph warns.

 

“I told him that,” Leah says smugly.

 

“At the risk of invading the well-known territory of I Don’t Want To Know, who gave you these...creatures?” Steph eyes the puppy she’s still holding. She doesn’t really want to put him down—that could be a recipe for disaster.

 

“Hela,” Loki says cheerfully.

 

Hela. Of course.

 

“And she said?”

 

“I have to find homes for them,” Loki looks down, but she’s not buying it for a second.

 

“Well, get to it.” She glares at the puppy in her arms. “Starting with this one.”

 

“Daughter of a mangy whore,” the puppy growls in response.

 

She shakes him lightly. “Say what you like about my dad, but my mother’s a lovely human being. And how can a human be mangy, again? If I recall, that’s something only _dogs_ get.”

 

The puppy’s tongue lolls out, and Loki chokes, “Are you having a semantics argument with a _Hel-Puppy_?”

 

“Gotta start ‘em young, kid.”

 

“Do you have any sort of background with this type of endeavor?” Leah inquires, unfolding herself from her seat on a rock.

 

“Nah, dear old dad never let me have any pets. Once mom kicked his ass out and he was in prison, we couldn’t afford one. We’re shooting in the dark.”

 

The puppy growls again, and tries to breath fire on her. She shakes him after ducking. “ _Bad_ dog.”

 

“Motherless tramp.”

 

“You’re losing impact,” she informs him. “It’s almost sweet.”

 

The puppy snaps at her again.

 

“Loki. List. Potential adopters. Go.”

 

“Mephisto. Tyr. Valkyrie. Heimdall. Gaea? Tumblr.”

 

“That’s six,” Steph says. She thinks she’s been really patient, but a dog that can breath fire and swear is just—no. “The seventh?”

 

Loki immediately looks guilty.

 

“No,” Steph tells him.

 

“But—“

 

“ _No_.”

 

Loki pouts. “Let us place the others, and see if this puppy’s nature can be changed.” He tries to pet the dog, but it snaps at him and breathes fire.

 

“ _BAD DOG_ ,” Steph says in the Outside Voice.

 

The puppy quiets, but glares at her.

 

“See? He likes you already!” Loki claps his hands. “Also, you’re the only one he listens to.”

 

“It’s about proclaiming yourself as alpha,” Steph explains, long-suffering. Oh Cass, what would you do here?

 

“Good luck with that,” Leah jabs Loki in the ribs with her elbow. “You’re not an alpha.”

 

He rubs his chest, grimacing. “Well, why don’t _you_ try it?”

 

“I have no desire for a pet,” Leah says haughtily.

 

“Guys. Focus. Is there some kind of harness?”

 

“Not a collar?” Loki asks, searching through the box of wriggling puppies.

 

Steph shakes her head. “This one’ll strangle himself before he submits to a collar. A harness is a better bet.”

 

“Rip your heart from your chest, poxy whore,” the puppy tells her.

 

“Already said that. Need some new ones, dear.”

 

“Got it!” Loki brandishes a harness and throws it to her. She curls the puppy into her chest and catches the harness.

 

Predictably, the dog bites her.

 

Hard.

 

She bites back a yelp, forcing the harness over his head and legs, which causes him to let her go. She puts him on the ground, kneeling over him to fasten the last buckle before unhooking her belt and threading it through the harness, finally standing and passing the makeshift leash to Loki.

 

She examines her left wrist. There are only white indents when the puppy’s canines marked her skin, but her long sleeves protected her from the puppy breaking the skin.

 

“You should remain here while we—that is, Leah and I—go to the court of Mephisto,” Loki says in a rush while he finds harnesses for the rest of the puppies in the box they came in. She has her suspicions about that box, since all of a sudden there are leashes too, and she gets her belt back.

 

“Oh?”

 

Loki scuffs a foot in the dirt. “I would not like to remind Mephisto of your existence.”

 

Oh. He’s _afraid_ for her.

 

“If mortals die in Hel, then their souls remain there to be tormented ever more. Rescue is not unheard of, but it is difficult.”

 

“Do you really think Mephisto would kill me?”

 

“Kill you dead, split your belly open and piss on the remains,” _the_ puppy squalls. They all ignore him.

 

“I would not put it past him,” Leah says softly, unhappily taking three of the leashes from Loki. “Hela does not trust him. And he finds you intriguing.”

 

Great. He of the Skeezy Eyes finds her ‘intriguing.’ She misses Clancy. ‘Violet Avenger’ suddenly seems like a crowning endearment.

 

“Surely he knows that killing me would be an act of war, especially since Hela and the All-Mother would fight for me,” she points out, nearly bowling over at the realization.

 

Hela and the All-Mother.

 

Mortal enemies, from everything she’s heard, willing to fight for _her_. Why the hell is she so special? Like, okay, the All-Mother she can understand, since Asgardia’s all ‘Go Team Go,’ and she technically fought for Asgardia with the whole Tanarus thing and the Night Mare thing.

 

But why is she so special to Hela?

 

Suddenly, taking spy lessons from Amora seems like a _fantastic_ idea.

 

“Mephisto does what he wants. He plays all sides, gaining much and losing nothing,” Loki looks out into the snow. “Please, Stephanie. Stay here.”

 

She sighs dramatically. “Only because you asked so nicely.” She looks down and—yep, _the_ puppy is pissing on her shoes. Only there has to be some sort of magic there, because it’s sliding right off, no residue or smell or anything.

 

She blesses the All-Mother.

 

“I should probably come with you for the rest of them,” Steph says, yawning. She’s tired. Hel-puppies are more than what she wanted to deal with.

 

“Actually,” Loki shifts from foot to foot. “With Leah’s magic, we can probably make all necessary calls rather quickly. Could you just—distract the All-Mother for a while?”

 

Steph sighs, and feels very old. “Oh fine.” She glares at the puppy. “But you are _not_ adopting him.”

 

\--

 

“I told you you could not adopt him,” Stephanie looks angry, and she has good reason, as Thori is pissing on her shoes again.

 

“He was the only one that couldn’t be placed, and everyone wanted to give up on him. I did not,” he looks to the side.

 

Stephanie’s face, as he predicted, softens. She kneels by him, grabbing Thori by the scruff of his neck and holding him in place. Thori growls at her, but she merely shakes him lightly and doesn’t otherwise acknowledge it. “Kid, I know you have this tendency to project things, but changing this one’s nature isn’t going to change your nature, you know.”

 

“But if I _do_ do it, then that means even a Hel-puppy is capable of change, which means _Loki_ is capable of change.”

 

“Oh sweetie,” she says, her eyes aging as she crushes him in a one-armed hug. “You’ve already proven you’re capable of change. You don’t need an intolerable dog to prove that.”

 

“I’ll train him and walk him and everything,” Loki insists. “He won’t be your responsibility in the slightest.”

 

She sits back on her haunches, surveying him. Thori is quiet in her grasp, and he’s only that quiet when around her. “Hm. Heard that one before. We’ll see how it goes. I’m heading to bed. Leah okay?”

 

“She’s tired,” Loki yawns. “But it was productive nonetheless.”

 

She musses his hair, growls at Thori, who growls right back, but horror of horrors, it sounds _fond_ , and walks down the stairs to her own chamber.

 

He looks down at Thori. “She will end you if you set the tower on fire.”

 

“Rip out the bitch’s liver,” Thori snarls.

 

“You can try. I somehow doubt that you’d succeed before she ended you. Good night,” he tacks on as he enters his own chambers, his feet cold against the stone floor. The fire in the fireplace is low and Ikol ruffles his feathers as he tucks himself into bed, curling up under the thick covers.

 

He’s rather grateful Stephanie talked him into getting a bed.

 

He’s asleep within a blink, and his nightmare takes form again.

 

Thor—but undead Thor—is standing against a backdrop of thundering skies. “You killed me,” undead Thor rumbles.

 

“I’m so sorry, I had to, the world had to be saved—“ he pleads, but undead Thor roars and gives chase.

 

Stephanie blinks into being, glaring up at Thor. She’s attired strangely, in silver armor and a purple cape, wearing a helmet with batwings on it. Her weapon is a long silver staff with a wickedly hooked blade on the end. “Loki, _run_ ,” she commands, her voice deep and rich.

 

“But—he’s Thor, you can’t kill him, he’s—“

 

“Loki,” Stephanie commands. “ _Run_.”

 

Thor roars and smashes Stephanie with Mjolnir, or tries to. She deflects the blow with her staff, kicking Thor in the stomach with a heeled boot, shoving him back. “Loki, get _out_ of here.”

 

“I will not be responsible for his death again!” he yells, stumbling between the battling blondes.

 

“Loki,” Stephanie begins—

 

He sits upright in bed, scrubbing at his eyes. Ikol is perched on the post of his bed, looking him over. “You shouted in your sleep,” the magpie says darkly.

 

“Kid?”

 

Stephanie appears in the doorway, Thori at her heels. She nudges him away with sleepy patience, bringing a lit candle into the room. Her blonde hair is loose and she’s wearing a white nightgown, definitely Asgardian made (Stephanie does not strike him as the type to wear lace on a nightgown), and she’s yawning. “Kid, you okay?”

 

He wants to smile to reassure her, but his muscles will not cooperate. “I’m—nightmare. Nothing serious.”

 

She sits down beside him on the bed, placing the candle on his bedside table. It throws her face into deeper shadow. “You were shouting my name and Thor’s. Anything you want to ‘fess up to?”

 

“No.”

 

She smiles. “’Course not. Anything I can do?”

 

“Know of any anti-nightmare charms?”

 

“I can try to find you a dreamcatcher,” she offers.

 

He flaps his hand. “Those only work for those with Native blood. I am too alien, and it would not be appropriate.”

 

She shrugs. “Fair enough. Aren’t there herbs that are good for warding off nightmares?”

 

He tilts his head, considering. “Anise, perhaps. There may be others. I would need to do research.” He leans back against the headboard. “I am sorry for waking you.”

 

“Wasn’t sleeping,” she tells him, her yawn giving away the lie. “But I know what it’s like to have nightmares, and I didn’t always have someone there to talk me through the horrors after I woke up. Don’t ever feel sorry about that.”

 

They sit for a while before she judges he is all right to go back to sleep. As she collects her candle, he asks, “Stephanie?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“You would fight for me, right? Against anyone?”

 

Her face creases into a smile and she brushes a kiss over his forehead. “Of course. It’s my job, but moreover, you’re a scared kid who’s doing the best he can. Everyone deserves a chance to.”

 

“Would you fight for me against Thor?”

 

She pauses, thinking through it. “Although at this point I would say some major stuff would have to go down for him to go against you, but yeah, I’d fight for you against Thor.”

 

“Even if you wouldn’t survive?”

 

She sticks her tongue out at him. “Haven’t you heard, kid? I’m kind of a bitch to kill.”

 

Ikol ruffles his feathers as she leaves. “She is loyal to you, through and through.”

 

“Is that bad?” he demands of the bird.

 

Ikol looks over across the room, his manner prim. “No.” His tone is smug satisfaction. “She is loyal to Loki.”

 

Loki peers at the bird, before sighing and getting under the covers again. He doesn’t dream again that night.

 

The next day, while they’re sitting at the diner and he’s introducing Leah to the wonders of milkshakes, Stephanie is up at the register getting something. She had muttered something about coffees and smoothies, but he’s certain it’s so she can flirt with the barista, who gets flustered rather easily.

 

He’s trying not to seem like he’s keeping an eye on her flirtation when he in fact is when a large, bulky mortal man blocks his view. He looks up and Leah does the same, although her expression doesn’t change as she finishes up _his_ milkshake.

 

“Bad enough you heathen freaks nearly destroy the town once a month,” the man rumbles, “but now you’re in my seat, too? Well, doesn’t that take all.”

 

“We can move,” Loki says quickly.

 

Leah veils her eyes with her lids. “We do not have to. Your name is not on these seats, and you do not own the diner. Also, the term ‘heathen’ comes the Old English word meaning those who live on the heath, or farmers. We are not farmers, thus we are not heathens.”

 

“You don’t acknowledge our one true lord and savior,” the man says, unimpressed.

 

“We don’t—oh what’s the term?—want any trouble here,” Loki cuts in. He searches in vain for Stephanie, but he cannot look past the man.

 

“Exactly,” the man bares his teeth, grabbing Loki’s collar and making a fist. Leah half-rises, but before anyone does anything, there’s a muffled curse and the man is yelping, letting go of Loki as the smell of coffee fills the air.

 

“Oh my god, I am _so_ sorry,” Stephanie says insincerely, daubing at the man’s shirt. “I swear, I’m such a klutz.”

 

She blinks at the man, and there’s a subtle change—her blouse is suddenly tighter across her chest, and her pose accentuates that. The man stares at her, before gulping audibly. “Oh, uh, no problem. You go right on ahead.”

 

She smiles at him, and Loki can see the man go starry-eyed. “Oh, _thank_ you.”

 

The man shuffles off, taking a few glances back to stare at Stephanie, as she slides in next to Loki, two more milkshakes in hand. She slides one to him and puts the other in front of her, taking a sip and closing her eyes.

 

“How did you do that?” Leah inquires. “I was prepared to throw him through the window, but you spilled hot coffee on him and got him to walk away.”

 

“Easy. I closed my eyes and wished real hard.” Stephanie’s amused. “More like I used the amazing power of boobs,” she glances down at her chest. “One thing getting pregnant did for me was amplify awesome boobage.”

 

“You glamoured him,” Loki says, fascinated.

 

“’scuse me?”

 

“You wished for the altercation to end without bloodshed, and it occurred, and you distracted him while focusing on the outcome you wished. You glamoured him.”

 

“Nah, just used the girls to their best effect,” Stephanie shrugs, sipping her milkshake again. “It can be really easy to talk dudebros out of doing shit.”

 

Another person is standing by their table, only this time it’s a redheaded man in an overcoat and no shirt. He’s glaring at Stephanie. “I am _not_ a messenger boy.”

 

Stephanie’s posture turns from relaxed to insouciant in an instant. She sips her milkshake slowly (the sounds are nearly obscene) while veiling her eyes with her lashes. “Is that so?” she drawls after licking her lips for remnants.

 

Loki and Leah share a look. Stephanie has been cool—no mentions of romance or stupid kissing, even if she does flirt with hapless baristas. For her to suddenly be oozing sexual appeal is something only grown-ups do.

 

The man places his hands, palm-down, on the table, and he stares deeply into her eyes. “Yes.”

 

She tilts her head. “Then why agree to take the package?”

 

He stands upright, running a hand through shaggy ginger hair. “It’s not every day the All-Mother of Asgardia contacts you with a desire to carry a rather large package to Hel on a mortal’s behalf. She enjoyed your prank, though.”

 

“I thought she might,” Stephanie looks delighted, leaning back. Her blouse is too tight against her chest again, and she’s lounging in the booth.

 

The man pinches the bridge of his nose, before glaring at Loki. “Godling. What have you wrought?”

 

Stephanie’s posture changes again, only this time she’s a tense lioness, waiting for the trap to be sprung. “Maybe we should take this outside.”

 

“That would probably be best,” the man says viciously. “Wouldn’t want civilians to be hurt, eh, _godling_?”

 

“One day,” Leah informs him as Stephanie lays down money for the tip and herds them out, “I will make a list of everyone of whom you have ever made an enemy of and we will mark who has decided to challenge you for that week.”

 

“No doubt I would appreciate the sentiment more if I could remember _why_ all of these people hate me,” he retorts.

 

Ikol settles on his shoulder. “Some need not an explanation to excuse it.”

 

“Those people also have friends or relatives who have been hurt by your previous incarnation,” Leah returns, her mouth set. “Thus, your point is moot.”

 

Ikol caws at her as Loki unwinds Thori’s leash from the light pole and walks them out of Broxton. Once they’re out of the town, immersed in the cornfields, the man turns on the five of them. “What have you wrought, godling?” There’s a fiery golden trident in his hand, pointed directly at Loki.

 

Stephanie moves quickly, grabbing the trident and jabbing it up, bringing the base of it close to the man’s eyes before turning and twisting her hold on the trident, using the trident as a lever to pull the man across her back and land him on his in the cornfield.

 

She levers the point of the trident as his throat. “Names and basic info also work really well as information-sharing techniques,” she says.

 

The trident is steaming, and he can see Stephanie’s palms beginning to redden.

 

“I’d let go of that, sweetheart, before you get permanent damage,” the man says grudgingly.

 

“Oh, name first, please,” Stephanie says, as though her hands aren’t being charred.

 

“Daimon Hellstrom, exorcist.”

 

“Oh how nice,” she tells him, a grimace starting to twist her face.

 

Hellstrom grabs the trident with both hands and pulls. Stephanie almost loses her balance, but she lets go and wavers before standing properly.

 

Hellstrom rolls to his feet in a fluid movement, slamming the base of his trident into the dirt and grabbing Stephanie’s hands. He clucks at her. “That was stupid, sweetheart.”

 

“Do _not_ call me sweetheart.”

 

“I carried your fugly present to Hela. I can call you whatever I like.”

 

Hellstrom reaches into a pocket, pulling out a vial of cream and smearing it on Stephanie’s hands before she can pull them away. “In 24 hours or so, they’ll be as good as new. Consider us even for being quick enough to get the drop on _me_. Now, godling, where were we...?”

 

Stephanie grimaces at her cream-covered hands before whirling to stand between him and Loki. “Without the violence, if you please,” she says saccharine-sweet.

 

Leah takes Stephanie’s left wrist and blows on it. The cream disappears, but so does the burn. She repeats it with the right, and Stephanie grins at her before facing Hellstrom again. “What’s the problem?”

 

Hellstrom purses his lips. “My issue’s with Loki.”

 

Leah puts her palm up, glowing with green fire as Stephanie pulls out one of her knives. “That’s nice,” Stephanie tells him, cheerfully. “We’ll hear about it anyway.”

 

Hellstrom’s eyes flick over Leah and Stephanie, before returning to Loki. “Body of a child, but still surrounded by chicks.”

 

“I beg your pardon,” Loki says indignantly.

 

“Oh please,” Leah snorts. “He’s arrogant and smug.”

 

“I’m his babysitter,” Stephanie adds.

 

Hellstrom shakes his head. “Okay, so you really are a kid.”

 

“Oh, was that a question?”

 

“Back off, blondie. Loki’s done some weird shit before, including taking a woman’s body and seducing Dr. Doom,” Hellstrom looks unimpressed. “I had to be sure.”

 

“Guy gets around,” Stephanie agrees. “Now, the issue?”

 

Hellstrom sighs. “Kids are dying in their nightmares, dreaming of a castle.”

 

“I’ve been dreaming of a castle,” Loki says eagerly, “the Serpent’s Castle, and I was dying in my nightmare until—“

 

“Until?” Hellstrom prods.

 

“She saved me,” Loki nods at Stephanie. “She appeared in my dream and she saved me.”

 

“Friend to all kids, huh?” Hellstrom asks her.

 

Stephanie’s smile is sharp and full of teeth. “Oh, there’s some of that there. Like I said, I’m his babysitter. I protect him from those who would harm him. Any other stupid questions?”

 

Hellstrom looks her over, and is that—yes, that is in fact approval.

 

Loki has a sinking feeling he knows where this is will go.

 

“We should team up,” he interjects. “Leah, Stephanie, me, and you. We should totally team-up.”

 

“Hold up kid,” Hellstrom orders, and he discovers he only likes being called kid when it is Stephanie saying it. “Team ups are what peers do. Blondie here would probably qualify, but you? No way. At best, you’re my kid sidekick.”

 

“Don’t they usually die tragically and provide motivation for the hero to overcome the final obstacle?”

 

“Yeah,” Hellstrom answers.

 

“No,” Stephanie interjects. “Or at least, _my_ ‘death’ didn’t do that.”

 

Hellstrom looks Stephanie over. “Sweetheart, I am looking forward to getting to know you.”

 

Loki does the smart thing and ignores that whole interchange. “I rather like the sound of that.”

 

“Me too,” Leah says with a grin.

 

Hellstrom looks to the sky. “Okay, we need to parley. Any place we can sit down at talk?”

 

“Sir,” Thori says slowly, and they all look at him. He looks up at Hellstrom with slavering devotion. “Will you be my master?”

 

Hellstrom’s face is so good, Loki wants to render it pictorially.

 

“Silence, Thori,” he orders the Hel-puppy, tugging on his leash. “Follow me, Hellstrom. We will go to Leah’s cave.”

 

Stephanie lets him and Leah take the lead, and Loki notes how Hellstrom lags behind so that he walks in step with her. They don’t talk, but Stephanie is not blind to how Hellstrom has been looking at her, and now she returns the favor in full, her blue eyes taking on a rather burning look, and their tension returns tenfold.

 

Loki shudders and walks a little faster.

 

Once they’ve built up a good fire (Thori spat at the wood in Leah’s fire pit in an attempt to impress Hellstrom, but it only served to make him stare), Hellstrom starts with, “Look, my dad’s one of the Satans, and I ruled his corner of Hell for a little while. We all agreed it wasn’t great, so in exchange for me abdicating and renouncing all claim to it, I have a stretch of Hell to call my own. When I exorcise demons, I put them there to really suffer, instead of sipping pina coladas by the lakes of fire like their previous Hell adventures. Being a victim for a good long while makes them change their mind about making other people victims.”

 

“So...you’re the black sheep out of your family,” Loki says slowly. He grins. “So you’re a good sheep! But why the leather trousers and lack of shirt?”

 

“I like the lack of shirt,” Leah says _sotto voce._

 

“Me too,” Stephanie agrees.

 

“Man’s got a reputation to uphold,” Hellstrom’s eyes are on Stephanie and Leah, or rather, Stephanie. (Loki’s rather glad of it. Stephanie would not hesitate to hurt him if Hellstrom indicated an interest in Leah, if only because Leah is ‘under the age of consent,’ as Stephanie would put it).

 

“So, these sleepers,” Loki tries to bring them back on track. “What exactly is going on? They’re dreaming of the Serpent’s War? Have you been able to exorcise them?”

 

“Kind of but not really,” Hellstrom says reluctantly. “It’s dark energy that’s causing their nightmares, and it’s like trying to clean molasses out of your clothes. I’ve been able to quarantine what I can find, but it’s hard.”

 

“Hm.” Loki snaps his fingers. “Try to see what you can get from _my_ mind.”

 

“What?” Hellstrom demands.

 

“Loki,” Stephanie starts.

 

Loki waves them off. “I’ve been suffering these same types of dreams.” Stephanie’s face becomes shuttered and cold, and all right, he wishes he had been able to discuss it with her prior to Hellstrom’s appearance. “So you should be able to detect the same kind of energy in my mind. Stephanie can anchor me.”

 

“Do you know what you’re asking of her?” Hellstrom is intent, focusing on Loki alone at last.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Does _she_ know?”

 

“Sitting right here,” Stephanie says in the tone that says she’ll start calling them assholes in a moment.

 

“Are there not other ways before going under?” Leah inquires, picking at her nails.

 

Hellstrom nods, getting up. Stephanie gets in his way. “If you hurt him,” she warns.

 

“I’ll have you to deal with,” Hellstrom says with dreadful patience. He looks her up and down. “How are your hands?”

 

“Oh, I can flex them,” Stephanie smiles, but it is not nice.

 

Hellstrom nods in acknowledgement to her threat, standing by Loki. He places the tips of his index and middle fingers against either side of his head, and concentrates.

 

They come abruptly back, and his mouth is dry, making him wonder how long they’d been gone.

 

“There’s definitely something wicked there,” Hellstrom says, reaching for a flask inside his coat and taking a swig. “But I can’t budge it.”

 

“Is it a brain?” Leah asks lightly, and Stephanie covers her mouth, but her eyes are dancing.

 

“No.”

 

“Unsurprising,” Leah grumps, sitting back against the rock.

 

Stephanie nudges her.

 

“There are a couple of herbs I have to get, because we’ll have to go under. I suggest you tell Stephanie what it means to be an anchor while I’m gone.”

 

Once he departs the cave, Stephanie looks at Loki expectantly.

 

“It’s a physical reminder that I belong on this plane and not the dream plane,” Loki starts. “Touch is, literally, a touchstone. A talisman, of sorts.”

 

“So I’m holding you while you two go under?”

 

“Yes,” Loki says baldly. “The anchoring-ness of the whole matter will make you unconscious, but you won’t be on the dreaming plane.”

 

“It will be up to me to wake you up,” Leah adds. “Once you wake up, Loki will wake up. It’s a momentary psychic bond with some transference.”

 

“My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts. One, and together.” Stephanie is quoting something, but he has no clue what she is.

 

Hellstrom catches the last bit as he walks back in. “Something like that, though I assure you it won’t cause pon farr.”

 

Stephanie’s manner is flirtatiously insolent again. “Someone knows Star Trek.”

 

“Someone needs entertainment so he doesn’t kill off the human race.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

“Has the kid explained what it means to be an anchor?”

 

“I think I got the gist.”

 

“Are you ready?”

 

“Can anyone really be ready?” Stephanie asks him, but they settle into position, Leah sitting on one side of Stephanie while Loki is curled into her other side. Hellstrom does his ritual, and they descend.

 

\--

 

Steph wakes up, gasping. Beside her, Loki’s doing the same and she props him so he can breathe. “I’m—all right, I’m all right,” Loki assures her between coughs.

 

Her heart’s racing and terror is icing her veins. No, she didn’t dream, but the emotional transference of Loki’s nightmare is causing her to have a panic attack.

 

_“Now, let’s see, all I want is the location of the Batcave. And you’re going to tell me.”_

“—phanie! Stephanie!” There are hands on her shoulders. “ _Look_ at me.”

 

She focuses on fiery eyes and ginger hair, and it clears up to form Daimon Hellstrom’s face. He’s intent on her, and she grips his wrists as she tries to breathe.

 

“Breathe, Stephanie, there’s a good girl,” he soothes. “Emotional transference—“

 

“—is an effect on the mind-meld,” she gasps out. “I know.” Her grip on his wrist tightens, but she’s not trying to throw him off. It’s kind of a relief, to know he’s there.

 

Loki’s face swims into her vision. “Stephanie? Stephanie, I’m so sorry.”

 

She gulps and shakes her head. “Don’t—don’t apologize. I agreed, remember?”

 

“Give her some space, kid,” Daimon orders.

 

“Don’t call him kid,” she tells him. “Only I call him kid.”

 

Daimon’s face flickers with a smile. “Okay. Are you ready to hear what we found out?”

 

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her heart rate’s calming down, but sweat’s pouring from her temples. She daubs at it before it can get into her eyes. “Shoot.”

 

“Nightmare is trying to build an ultimate weapon from fear-stuff left over from the Serpent’s attack,” Loki reels off. “Apparently, I have the mother-lode, so he’s going after me specifically, and the other sleepers. I know who they are—we can save them.”

 

“Dumb question—what happens if Nightmare gets this weapon?”

 

“He will overpower the other Lords of Fear, possibly replacing Fear himself,” Daimon sits back, rubbing his wrists absently. “He’ll be on Mephisto’s level of power, and without Mephisto’s moral compunctions.”

 

“Mephisto has moral compunctions?” she struggles to sit up.

 

“He’s got his own code,” Daimon shrugs. His eyes are sharp as he looks Loki over. “There’s one thing you held back, ki—Loki.”

 

“The fear-stuff kills the sleepers,” he says reluctantly.

 

“And if you have the mother-lode,” Leah says with rising horror. Steph can relate.

 

“Honestly, stop worrying,” Loki tells them, his voice patently false with cheer. “You’re so _depressing_ , Leah. We have other people to save. To New Jersey!”

 

“Oh yeah, living there would make _me_ terrified,” Steph mutters as they follow.

 

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Daimon tells her as Leah opens a portal and Steph cringes away from it. Loki and Leah jump through first (she should be running point) and she and Daimon follow. “Got a nice house there.”

 

“Oh yes, that really persuades me to try it,” she says saucily before falling to her hands and knees once teleportation has her on solid ground again.

 

“On your feet, soldier,” Daimon says, almost kindly, hauling her upright. He rubs his wrists again. “Gotta say, you make me feel it, girl.” His grin tells her exactly what he means. “Wonder what else you’re capable of.”

 

Cass, what would you think of him?

 

“Oh, maybe you’ll find out,” she responds, turning back towards Loki and Leah. “Plans?”

 

“The first sleeper is here. Her name is Anna, and she is thirteen,” Loki bounds up to the door of the small, respectable looking home. There’s a white picket fence, fresh grey paint on the house, and a small bush of—lavender?—in the front.

 

When Loki knocks on the door, a tired-looking older man with creases of grey skin at the corners of his eyes and mouth answers. “This really isn’t a good time—“

 

“That’s precisely what we’re here to help with,” Loki chirps. He points to Daimon. “This enterprising young man,” Steph hears Daimon cut off a snort, “is an exorcist, and he can help your daughter.”

 

“I don’t have time for this,” the older man snaps.

 

Steph rolls her eyes and joins Loki on the porch. “I recognize the term ‘exorcist’ stinks of, like, charlatans and stuff. But believe me when I say Daimon Hellstrom,” she jabs a thumb at Daimon, “is the real deal, and what’s affecting your daughter can kill her, and Hellstrom is the only guy who can help.” She holds the dad’s eyes. “Is your daughter’s life worth it enough for you to give us time?”

 

The man drags a hand over his face. “Come in, all of you.”

 

\--

 

They all settle in around the girl’s bed, Stephanie sitting on the floor, her back to a couch. Loki settles in next to her, and she wraps her arm around him, tucking his head under her chin and closing her eyes. Next to her, Leah settles her skirts and grasps Stephanie’s free hand with both of hers’, nodding to Hellstrom. Hellstrom begins to chant, and Loki’s eyes droop.

 

They beat out Nightmare from Anna’s mind and rouse her, and Loki wakes a second before Stephanie does.

 

Good thing, too, because she lurches to her hands and knees and vomits all over the floor.

 

He’s able to duck out of the way, but if he sees Stephanie crying as she purges her stomach, he says nothing.

 

Getting up is a struggle. His head swims and his mouth tastes sourly metallic. His own gorge rises up with the rancid scent that accompanies the...purging, but before Stephanie can ask for a mop and cleaning fluid (because she _will_ ), Hellstrom’s helping her up. “Here, I got this. _Scourgify._ ”

 

“That’s an actual spell? Or is it something you liked so you made it into a spell?”

 

Loki crosses over to Leah, a movement that offers him plausible deniability against seeing Stephanie lean against Hellstrom rather heavily.

 

“Nah, it’s an actual spell,” Hellstrom tells her, laughing slightly. “I think JK might’ve met a demon hunter.”

 

“Awesome,” Stephanie rasps, standing up straight. She looks at Loki and Leah. “BTW, chickie, thanks. For the anchoring and stuff.”

 

Leah tilts her head as she considers this. “Chickie?”

 

“You prefer something else?”

 

“Leah, Dark Lord of All?” Loki offers, and doesn’t protest when Leah drives her elbow into his ribs.

 

“Chickie is acceptable,” Leah decides. Her eyes sharpen as she looks at Loki. “Where is the next sleeper?”

 

“Albany,” Loki tells her, and off they go.

 

They visit two other households after the one in Albany like some version of a demented Santa Claus, and after the fourth successful exorcism, Stephanie roots out a handkerchief from one of the pockets and daubs at his nose; startled, he realizes his nose is bleeding. He waves her hands off and takes the handkerchief for himself. “Don’t tilt your head back,” Stephanie warns. “It sends blood rolling down the back of your throat. Tilt your head forward instead.”

 

“Yes, Mother,” he drawls, his voice muffled by the square of linen in front of his mouth. “Can I have another energy drink?”

 

He can see Stephanie frown. “Not until you’ve eaten something. That much sugar on an empty stomach doesn’t end well. I know.”

 

“Perhaps this would be a good time to take a break, anyway,” Leah says (surprisingly tactful). “It would be unwise to send you back under while your nose is leaking copious fluid.”

 

Scratch that. She’s not being tactful at all.

 

Ikol alights on his shoulder. “This is not working,” Ikol grumbles. “This is not how Loki fights. This is how Thor fights. You are not Thor.”

 

“I can _try_ ,” he snaps.

 

Hellstrom and Stephanie take that apparently in response to Leah.

 

“Nah, breaking for food is a good idea,” Hellstrom says, eyeing Stephanie. “’Specially you, sweetheart.”

 

Indeed, Stephanie looks to be on the verge of death. Her skin is a chalky white and sweat pours from her in fat droplets. The neckline of her purple tunic has turned from a deep lilac to a dark purple, and when she turns around, he sees that same dark purple line down her back.

 

“I swear I’m fine,” Stephanie ruins the already-pathetic lie by stumbling, and Hellstrom—overly patiently, Loki thinks, and he frowns—catches Stephanie’s flailing arm and steadies her. She forces a grin. “See? I’m fine.”

 

“Yeah, uh-huh Blondie,” Hellstrom steers her out. “We’ll be back with food.”

 

Once the adults (yes, the _adults_ ) are gone, Loki looks at Leah. She looks back at him.

 

Ikol settles on the floor between them, bating with difficulty. “Well?” Ikol demands.

 

“This isn’t working,” Leah says flatly. “You will kill yourself before you rescue the other sleepers.”

 

“What do you recommend?” Loki retorts, glancing at the handkerchief, well-spotted with blood.

 

“Every time you sleep you risk an aneurysm,” Leah muses, standing up so that she can pace, “because you host the mother-lode.”

 

“Is there a way to remove it?”

 

“Yes,” Leah says slowly, “but I don’t know how to contain it. While it is contained within you, it is difficult for Nightmare to get at it. If you take it out, Nightmare will go mad in his determination to get ahold of it.”

 

“He is weaker in the physical realm than the realm of dreams,” Loki points out.

 

“But there is no way to contain him with any surety,” Leah responds. “He has his own magic, elemental and unpredictable. You cannot bind him.”

 

“Oh, this is a mess,” Loki groans, removing his circlet and cap to rub at his hair.

 

“It is,” Leah sighs, sliding down the wall to sit down next to him, and to his surprise, leans her head on his shoulder.

 

Ikol waddles closer. “There could be a way, to create a weapon that would give Nightmare what he wanted, and would save the sleepers.”

 

Loki looks at the magpie with weary impatience. “Spit it out, bird.”

 

“He wants a crown. So give him one.”

 

\--

 

“Sweetheart, talk to me,” Daimon’s voice seems to be coming from far away, and she struggles to follow the sound of it, fluttering her eyelids.

 

“About what? And--,” it’s hard to form words, “do—don’t call me sweetheart.”

 

“Why not?” she feels a touch to her forehead, and realizes Daimon’s checking her temperature.

 

“Don’t like it.”

 

“That much is obvious. The thing about being a half-demon, Stephanie, means that I don’t mind picking at things that people don’t like, and since it’s getting you to respond, I’m still going to call you sweetheart.”

 

She reaches out blindly, trying to swat him. She misses completely.

 

“This isn’t working,” Daimon observes, stretching out his legs. The various waiters working the dining room shoot him a dirty look and work around him; Steph is peripherally aware of their existence.

 

“Waiting for takeout is a tried-and-true hero tradition,” she snipes, settling deeper into her coat. The cold air bites through the sweat-soaked clothing and she feels cold _and_ gross, never a good combination. She wants to change her clothes.

 

“No, this whole taking-the-fight-to-Nightmare thing isn’t working. Loki might end up being okay, being a godling and all, but _you’re_ mortal.”

 

“Yes, I know.”

 

“You’re more likely to die of a stress-related heart attack than he is to die of a brain aneurysm,” Daimon says patiently. “You have a panic attack every time we wake up. That _can’t_ be good for you.”

 

She’s starting to come back to herself, enough to glare at him. “Thank you for the concern, I’m fine.”

 

“Oh just bloody peachy, that’s you,” Daimon sounds disturbingly like Beryl for a sec. “Here,” he shoves a shot-glass in her hand. She looks down into it with suspicion.

 

“What is this? And where did you get it?”

 

“Does it matter? It’ll warm you up.”

 

“You didn’t, like, drug it or something, did you?”

 

“Why would I do that?” He winks at her, “Besides, the shirtless look does wonder for my sex life.”

 

She snorts, but takes the shot anyway. It burns all the way down her throat and into her stomach, but it brings her back to herself. “Ugh, what _was_ that? And where do you keep it?”

 

“Cinnamon schnapps. Better than brandy or scotch for waking up, and cheaper too. And I keep it in a Void pocket, along with some other items of note.” Daimon checks the clock out of reflex—they’ve been waiting for almost twenty minutes for their order of pad thai, ginger-glazed duck, stir-fried vegetables, fried rice, and teriyaki chicken—and sips from his flask. “But while we’re in sharing mode, I believe I’d like to know _your_ backstory. Because only two types of people would anchor a kid in a nightmare realm: people with nothing to fear, or people who’ve been broken and knows exactly what it takes to do it again, but they’re good up until that point.” He does a strange salute with his flask to her. “Somehow, I think you’re the second type, not the first.”

 

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” she says flatly. “Gimme your flask.”

 

“Oh?” He hands it to her, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

 

“If we’re going to go there, I need a drink.” She takes a gulp and gags. “What is this, paint thinner?”

 

“Cheap whiskey. It’s the only thing I drink while I’m working,” he confides, looking at her—strangely. Like she’s a puzzle he can’t figure out. “Well?”

 

“Oh, you know, the usual, emotional, verbal, and physical abuse, neglect, teen pregnancy, jerkass boyfriends, torture, almost death, par for the course for a teenage vigilante, sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll,” she shrugs, deliberately blasé. “Anything I can clarify for you?”

 

“That’s quite a combo.”

 

“Order up!”

 

They stand up, Steph slipping the flash back into his coat pocket at they walk up to the counter. She pays but he carries, maneuvering them past the crowds of New York City back to the hotel room they’ve ordered for the night. “So, how exactly does a teen vigilante end up a babysitter for a newly-minted baby trickster?”

 

“Involves deals of the Faustian-lite kind,” Steph jumps over a puddle. It’s been raining nonstop for the last three days. “Dude in green appears to me, offers me healing right from the maw of death in exchange for protection down the line, and as an incentive, kills the dude who tortured and nearly killed me. How could I say no?”

 

He stares at her as they wait at a crosswalk. “And this dude who tortured and nearly killed you would be...?”

 

“Someone you wouldn’t know,” she tells him, grabbing his wrist and propelling him forward once they’re cleared to walk. “He was a jerkass, and it goes against everything my mentors taught me, but I’m glad he’s dead, just as I’m glad that I’m not the one who killed him.”

 

“Some people need killing,” he observes, opening the door to their hotel for her.

 

Her lips quirk in a strange smile, one she’s unfamiliar with. “Maybe, but I can neither confirm nor deny that statement.”

 

“Hm. You wouldn’t, would you.”

 

She sticks her tongue out, sashaying down the hall and opening the door to their room. She cocks an eyebrow at him and waits until he’s close enough to enter the room, just in time for him to admire her swaying...hips.

 

Completely an accident, of course.

 

“Sweetheart,” Daimon warns in an undertone as he sets the bags down on the counter of the tiny kitchenette.

 

“What’s the problem?” she blinks at him.

 

“Don’t even—“

 

“Food!” Loki exclaims, and between him and Leah, there’s a mad rush to help themselves to what Steph and Daimon put out on the counter. Steph feels a shiver of cold run down her spine as she watches her two kids gabble to each other about the food in front of them, jockeying for servings and elbowing each other familiarly.

 

She looks away to see Daimon looking at her. His face is blank, and she can’t read him. Then, deliberately, he raises a shoulder in a shrug and helps himself to what Loki and Leah left behind.

 

Once the food is eaten (it’s practically inhaled, no worries about leftovers), she settles against the headboard, clicking on the television to see what’s on. She finds _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ on on AMC and settles in. Leah folds her legs under her and sits down at Steph’s feet; Loki sits next to her and she winds her arm around his shoulder. The kid has got to be tired, because he snuggles in, no questions asked.

 

Daimon gives her the universal sign language that he’s stepping out for a smoke, he’ll be back soon.

 

As soon as he clears the threshold, Loki sits up. “I sense I’m being bribed,” she teases as she pulls her legs up to sit cross-legged. “Was that what that was?”

 

“I can neither confirm nor deny that statement,” Loki deadpans.

 

Leah clears her throat, flicking her hair clear of her shoulders. “We believe we have an idea.”

 

“About this whole exorcism thing?” Steph scratches her temple with the tip of her fingernail. She recognizes it’s a nervous gesture and puts her hands in her lap. “Yeah, I noticed that it wasn’t working.”

 

“Nightmare wants the fear-stuff to make a crown. We’re thinking about giving him exactly what he wants,” Loki bounces slightly. She recognizes _that_ as a nervous gesture.

 

“He thinks,” Leah says quickly. “I poked holes in it. It is not a perfect plan.”

 

“Yeah, like giving Nightmare a power-boost that could put him on par with Mephisto,” Steph points out.

 

“There are numerous ways that this can mitigated or out-and-out averted,” Loki points out. “Mephisto will not take it well if Nightmare decides to make himself a bigger player in the sandbox. The other Fear Lords will demand that he share the power among them but—“

 

“If it’s a crown, it can’t be shared,” Steph says with dawning realization. “So it will create a power struggle among— _how_ many Fear Lords?”

 

“Seven,” Leah confirms.

 

“Huh,” Steph muses. “I don’t suppose you could build it so that Nightmare gets it but then it never works?”

 

“He’d sense that,” Loki grimaces. “It must be exactly what it appears to be.”

 

“Is there any way to build a backdoor into it?” Steph stretches out her legs to ease a cramp. “That way, it is an object of absolute power or whatever, but if the power struggle is ever eased, there’s a way that you can render it, you know, impotent. Is there a way you can do that?”

 

Loki and Leah share a look. “It could be crafted,” Leah agrees. “But it will take time and excruciating work so that Nightmare will never sense it.”

 

“Well, if you’re making it out of _your_ fear, why not make it dependent on that?” Steph offers, leaning her head back. “That way, if you ever get over those fears or integrate them, the crown is powerless?”

 

Loki’s eyes widen. “That opens avenues of possibility.”

 

“You never, ever make a weapon that you yourself can’t defeat,” Steph says in her Master Po voice. “Trust me on this, young grasshopper.”

 

Loki sighs and leans back into her. Steph moves him over slightly so that if Leah wants to be on her other side, there’s room for her. Leah’s eyes flicker slightly when Steph gestures her over, but she smiles at the girl who could give Cass a run for her money in terms of personal sobriety of manner ( _definitely_ Spock and Babs’ lovechild), and Leah sighs, crawling over.

 

Steph unmutes _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ in time for Daimon to walk back in, smelling of cloves, and she rolls her eyes slightly at him before focusing on the screen. Audrey Hepburn is, as always, a truly classy lady.

 

\--

 

When Loki wakes up, he realizes his face is tucked into the crook of Stephanie’s neck and her left hand is holding the back of his neck lightly. He turns his head slightly (not enough to jar her hand) to see Leah curled around Stephanie, her head on Stephanie’s lap with Stephanie’s right hand tangled lightly in her hair.

 

The fact that they all fell asleep like this, and _stayed_ asleep...His mind is unable to focus on the ramifications, too bowled-over to focus on it specifically.

 

He reaches up and gently displaces Stephanie’s hand from his head, placing it on her lap and getting off the bed carefully. Daimon’s asleep, sitting against the wall (though there is a another bed).

 

For the first time in a long time, he’s slept without nightmares. Though his dream (overly detailed as always) was disturbing in certain ways. “Why am I Sleeping Beauty to you?” he asks of the still-slumbering Stephanie, before picking his way out of the hotel room, pocketing a key on his way out.

 

They’re in New York City, home of the Avengers, and his brother is serving with the Avengers as of right now. Avengers Tower is in the center of the city, and—he wants to see his brother.

 

“This is not a good idea,” Ikol warns. “There are many who still dislike you that live there.”

 

“I want to see my brother,” he retorts. “I know enough to shield myself from all but him.”

 

Ikol caws in derision, choosing not to say anything else.

 

The security of Avengers Tower is laughable, and he gets in with hardly a hiccup.

 

He does get stopped by the butler. “May I ask for whom you are looking for?” the man says dryly.

 

“Thor,” he confides.

 

“And you are?”

 

“His little brother.”

 

The butler’s eyebrows raise slightly, but he walks off. Loki finds the library on the mounted building map, and heads there.

 

No one said he had to meet Thor in the foyer.

 

He’s peering at the texts when he hears his brother enter. “Loki? Why are you in New York City?”

 

He turns, smiling slightly. “Can’t a brother want to see his brother?”

 

“You are Loki,” Thor chides. “There is always another reason.”

 

“Surprisingly, there is none this time. I just wanted to see you.”

 

Thor mulls this over.

 

Loki realizes with a flash that what he really wants—not that he could ever put it in words he speaks out loud, especially not to Thor—is just to ask his brother to hold him, if only for a little while. For Thor to tell him that it’s all going to be okay, that whatever’s going on, the two of them can beat it.

 

It’s ridiculous and sentimental and something he wants very, very deeply.

 

He wonders what Stephanie would say, if her version of Thor was in the room and she needed the touchstone. He wonders who her version of Thor would be.

 

“Loki?” Thor asks, cradling his head in one of his giant hands. “What is wrong? Is it Asgardia?”

 

Loki shakes himself free of his reverie and smiles at his brother. “I—I missed you,” he answers, hating the words but knowing nothing else that would explain the gaping maw in his chest where his brother normally resides.

 

It is apparently enough for Thor, who grins widely and crushes Loki to him, and though breathing is becoming an issue, he chooses to enjoy the moment, because Thor is never this free with physical affection in Asgardia.

 

“Hey, Thor? There’s a blonde woman here to see you, about shared custody?” A light, feminine voice interrupts them, and Thor turns so that his arm is still draped over Loki but he’s definitely facing whoever spoke.

 

The woman is dressed in a somewhat-familiar red-and-blue suit, with long blonde hair falling down her back. Though her tone was perfectly courteous, there’s a strange icing over her eyes—perhaps Stephanie’s joke regarding shared custody between Thor and herself was taken seriously, that Stephanie and Thor were his biological parents in some way.

 

While the idea itself holds interest, the idea of Stephanie and Thor together makes him clench his mouth shut to hold back the bile.

 

“Ah, Stephanie. Please let her in, she is my brother’s guardian and much given to humor,” Thor laughs, and Loki watches tension bleed out of the woman. Her smile is much more open and friendly and her stance is less frozen. As she turns on her heel, Thor leans over and says to Loki, “That is Carol Danvers, the new Captain Marvel, former Ms. Marvel.”

 

“Ah,” Loki says in understanding. She had attended Thor’s funeral—that is where he remembers her.

 

Stephanie enters the room, dark circles under her blue eyes. The blue in her eyes looks washed out, like how lakes lose their blue to grey if the sun hits it just right. Her hair is tied in a messy bun, and the hem of her purple tunic shows under her black hoodie.

 

She, in short, looks like she just rolled from her bed.

 

“Hey kid,” she says quietly. “Thanks for letting me know where you’re going.”

 

A pinch of guilt settles low in his stomach.

 

Thor looks from Loki to Stephanie. “Lady Stephanie, why are you and my brother in New York City in the first place?”

 

Stephanie smiles slightly (it creases her eyes), hiding a yawn behind her hand. “Field trip. Greater understanding of the world around him, and all that. He can’t stay in Asgardia forever. I thought he should see what world is around him.”

 

Loki can see Captain Marvel leaning against the doorpost, shamelessly eavesdropping. But if Thor has not asked her to depart, he is then comfortable with her presence and leaves her be.

 

“Is the All-Mother aware?”

 

“By now, yeah,” Stephanie confirms, crossing her arms unconsciously.

 

“You did not ask them for permission?”

 

“Easier to ask forgiveness.” Stephanie is starting to tense, and Loki wonders if Thor notices it. “I don’t like having to regulate my every move to the Powers That Be.”

 

“But Loki is a citizen of Asgardia, and as such should beg leave—“

 

“I am an honorary citizen of Asgardia, above the age of majority in my country _and_ yours.”

 

Thor looks stymied, but Stephanie has a point. If Thor wished to take Loki from Asgardia, he would not stop to ask the All-Mother. Therefore, Stephanie does not have to.

 

“Fair enough,” Thor finally says. He smiles down at Loki. “He says he missed me.”

 

Stephanie relaxes. “We all do, big guy. Asgardia’s not quite the same without Sif showing off for you in training or me being unconscious in the healing wing.”

 

Thor laughs loudly. “Surely the Lady Sif is accustomed to proving herself, regardless of my presence.”

 

“She kicks my ass ten times out of ten,” Stephanie confirms.

 

Loki sees Captain Marvel leave the room, and wonders what worries may have been assuaged. Or what conclusions were drawn.

 

He knows that he and Stephanie must leave soon, if he and Leah are to make the crown and tempt Nightmare out of his hiding space with it, but he just wants this last moment with his brother, in case something goes wrong. It’s magic. There’s always a chance something can go wrong.

 

They leave not long after that, and Stephanie wordlessly offers her hand to him as they pass over the threshold of Avengers Tower. He wants to refuse, to give into his contrary nature that Ikol claims he possesses, but he wants the comfort too much, so he winds his fingers in hers and holds on.

 

Stephanie starts talking quietly, only to him, among the New York commuters. “Tim, my ex, for a while, he was depressed and suicidal. He needed to find his mission again before he got his head back. He went through some really terrible shit, and he was having hallucinations and a death wish and even worked for the enemy for a while. But he finally got his shit together and came back better than ever.”

 

“Is there a point to this?” Ikol snarks, landing on her head and bating.

 

Stephanie winces at the feeling of talons on her scalp, trying to wave the bird off. “My point is, kid, I’m worried about you.”

 

He looks at their entwined hands, how her cuticles are red and raw, the ragged edges of her nails, in comparison with his gloved ones, and wonders which is more honest. “I just wanted to say goodbye. In case we don’t get through this.”

 

Stephanie squeezes his hand. “We _will_ get through this.”

 

“Can I trust that?” But he’s smiling, despite himself.

 

She nudges him. “Hey, you can trust _me_.”

 

\--

 

Loki and Leah essentially ask for personal time, and Steph can’t exactly deny them, so she sends Daimon off to get food (and she suspects he’s going to pick up smokes), and then she looks at the New York City skyline, and it’s not Gotham, not in any way, shape or form, but it’s got that metallic tinge to the air that says _city_.

 

Steph’s a city girl, born and raised.

 

The best way to get to know a city is to swing around by grapple, and she suspects that for whatever reason, New York City is one she and Loki will be visiting often, so she unearths her grapple and goes running.

 

She’s doing her third roundabout of Times Square with a red-and-blue blur comes from out of nowhere, scooping her from the air and landing on the nearest roof, but she doesn’t recognize the logo of the building.

 

“Are you _high_?”

 

“Excuse me?” why yes, Cass, she _is_ indignant.

 

“Are you joking? What person decides to—oh screw it, lady—”

 

“Slow down,” she orders in the outside voice, and the guy shuts up and stops pacing, so she’s able to get her first look at him. “I was trained, so no, I was not needlessly putting my life in danger or anything and I did not need you to rescue me.”

 

The guy (oh, and it’s definitely a guy. Nice, um, spandex. Could you turn around again please?) throws his hands in the air. “Give someone a grapple, and they think they can fly through the air like every other hero!”

 

Wow, _fuck you asshole._

“That’s nice,” she snarks. _Itwouldbesociallyunacceptabletopunchhim. Itwouldbesociallyunacceptabletopunchhim._

Rappelling away before she punches him is probably the good idea, so she departs with all due haste.

 

All due haste. God, the Asgardians are making her vocab super impressive.

 

She’s about to flip and send out another line, heading back for the East Village when there’s that _twang_ feeling that accompanies only one thing.

 

“You _fucking jackass_!” she screeches at the red-and-blue figure. “You _cut my line!_ ” Only 2 types of people cut rappel lines: jackasses and villains. Since this guy complained about people pretending to be heroes, he’s clearly the former. She manages to save herself by sending another line out, cursing under her breath as she avoids various pitfalls, like, say, _buildings_. She comes to a stop at the top of one, rolling on the gravel and coming up angry.

 

The red-and-blue guy lands on the roof, holding his hands up. “I swear I didn’t cut your line, miss! Though I’m starting to think you aren’t pretending.”

 

“Oh _thank you_ ,” she snarls. “If you didn’t, then who the hell--?”

 

“I did,” a rumbly voice says. A man with—holy shit, is that a mechanical octopus strapped to his back? She stares.

 

“I was shot down by _Cthulhu?”_

 

“Not quite,” the other guy says, sighing. “Wrong face. Name’s Doc Ock. I’m Spiderman, by the way.”

 

“Oh okay,” she gropes for what ‘rangs she has on her. When she realizes what she has, she grins. _Yes_. “I’m Stephanie Brown. Don’t really have a title that would mean much in this dimension. So, Doc-Ock-not-Cthulhu, why the fuck did you cut my line?”

 

“To get to Spiderman.”

 

“Oh, I _see_. Well, fuck you then.” She throws out the three ‘rangs, and they land pointy-end-first in the mechanical arm-leg-things.

 

“Knives cannot harm me,” Doc Ock frowns.

 

She bares her teeth in what Damian would call a snarl; Dick would call it a ‘battle grin.’ Well. Dick’s weird. “Oh, just wait.”

 

The magna-rangs explode green goop all over him, and then the electric charge pushes through the mess. Doc Ock shrieks (it’s quite satisfying) and then collapses.

 

Spiderman rubs his head. “And, uh, here I thought this was going to be hard.”

 

“I’ve got places to be,” she snarks at him. “Take care of your own damn mess.”

 

With that, she fires a grapple and flies off into the night.

 

And it _would_ have been cool if she didn’t immediately get a pigeon to the face.

 

Typical.

 

She gets back to Loki in time to see Daimon pin the kid up against the wall with the points of his trident, eyes flaming.

 

No, seriously, _his eyes are inflamed_.

 

Steph doesn’t bother to think. Instinct alone has her rolling to a stop, kicking out right above the knee, and Daimon folds, turning on her with a snarl. She has knives in her hands before she’s truly aware of them, the slender knives that she has so much trouble with.

 

One flash of her hands, two, and Daimon’s twisting away from the knives, sweeping out with his trident. But she’s seen that trick before, and she uses the trident this time, to hold onto while she kicks out at Daimon’s chin. He falls back, and she jerks the trident from his grasp and throws it several feet, landing in a fighter’s crouch, both hands showing steel.

 

“I can’t let this happen,” Daimon rasps. Behind him, Steph can see Leah beckoning to Loki with a green misty portal framing her. “I can’t let Nightmare get that kind of power.”

 

“This is the only option,” she responds, her heart beating staccato in her chest. “Your way wasn’t working.”

 

“So we give Nightmare a huge power boost, and for _what_?” he punches out at her, and she turns, takes the brunt of the punch on her shoulder instead of her face, ducking under his arm to strike him solidly in the solar plexus. He grabs her wrist as she tries to move away, twisting it behind her and forcing her to her knees. His knee is a solid weight on her back and her hair is brushing the alley ground.

 

“Nice try Blondie, but I’ve got _years_ of experience.”

 

She bites her tongue. This is going to hurt.

 

She jerks her head up, colliding with the bridge of his nose, her head ringing with the impact. He lets go of her, and she rolls away, flashing out two knives that pin his jacket to the brick behind him. “It is the _only_ option,” she snarls, rotating her wrist. “It is a crown. It can’t be shared. You think the other Fear Lords are going to let Nightmare get away with this? Or Mephisto?”

 

Daimon frees himself (well. It’s not hard), and jumps at her, pinning her forearms to the brick above her head, holding her up against the wall. She’s not even able to get enough momentum to kick him.

 

He’s angry—his eyes are still flaming, and suddenly his hands are flaming too, and she winces at the meeting of intense heat to cloth and skin. Her sleeves burn away almost immediately, and then his hands are in contact with her bare flesh. “You let him—you _knew_ —“

 

“Of course I did,” she spits. “He asked me about it, and I gave him my input.”

 

“You—“ the heat intensifies.

 

“You’re hurting me,” she tells him, worried. “Let go.”

 

He looks up and sees what he’s doing for the first time, and his eyes widen with horror and he drops her, backing away. “Oh my god.”

 

There are deep burn marks on her forearms, not quite in the same shape as hands, more like fluttery outlines. If they weren’t shrieking at the burning sensation, she’d almost say they were pretty. She looks at him, and he’s pale. “Oh my god, Stephanie, I just—“

 

She flexes her right hand, and punches him in the jaw, the same punch Cass would give her all those times, and Daimon’s unconscious before he hits the ground.

 

She shakes the remains of her sleeves over her arms and leaves. Loki and Leah with rendezvous with her at the hotel, and by then, this should be done.

 

\--

 

“I will kill him,” Leah decides, staring at Stephanie’s arms.

 

Stephanie rolls her eyes—Loki and Leah can see it in the mirror—as she continues to run cold water over the reddened, angry skin. “Not really necessary, chickie. But thanks.”

 

“Still, how—why?” Loki tilts his head, observing how the burns cover her forearms all the way around. “He seemed to like you.”

 

“He was angry, and I was keeping him from going after you.” Stephanie looks to the door. “Can one of you go get me ice?”

 

“I can do better than that,” Leah assures her, jumping off the bed and taking hold of Stephanie’s left arm, focusing.

 

“That kills the pain, thanks chickie.”

 

“I cannot heal it,” Leah’s forehead knots. “I do not know why.”

 

“When we get back to Asgardia, I’ll ask Iðunn to take a look at it,” Stephanie shrugs, offering her right arm to Leah. “She of the golden apples ought to be able to heal it, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay then.” She searches for her hoodie and finds it, pulling it on over her head. “Is it done?”

 

Ikol bates. “Yes.”

 

“7 Fear Lords squabbling over a crown, done,” Loki affirms.

 

Stephanie’s face reappears, and she untucks her hair from under the hoodie’s...hood. “Let’s go home.”

 

“I agree.”

 

Leah nods, opening a portal. Stephanie grimaces but lets Loki go before her, following shortly. She has become accustomed to teleportation, Loki notes—she is hardly wobbly and she doesn’t look like nausea assails her anymore. This is good.

 

“Shower,” Stephanie says immediately, heading back to the tower that is a small dot in comparison to the rest of the Asgardian skyline.

 

Loki and Leah hang back, watching her toddle towards the city, shining in the light of the stars. “Did we do right, with the crown?” Loki asks of Leah, hating his insecurity.

 

Leah’s mouth softens, and she looks more like a friend than she usually does. She squeezes his arm lightly. “We made it possible for it to be defeated. That is the best we can do.”

 

He shrugs, listening for Ikol. “I just wish—“

 

“I know.” Leah nods towards the shadowy figure of Stephanie in the distance, recognizable only by her loose blonde hair. “If Stephanie returns without you, the All-Mother will come looking.”

 

“And you?”

 

Leah’s mouth twists to one side. “I will see my lady Hela tonight,” she says quietly. “I will return tomorrow, but I need to be in Hel tonight.”

 

Fear has a way of making one long for home, Loki understands suddenly. Leah seems so implacable, that the very thought of her being shaken surprises him. Before she can shove him away (or punch him in the ribs), he swoops in and kisses her cheek. “Good night, BFF. Come, Thori.” The dog skulks in the shadows, clearly hoping to be forgotten so he can run off and commit mischief elsewhere.

 

Leah swats at him, but it is a weak effort and he ducks, grinning at her as he chases after Stephanie, tugging Thori along. As he leaves, he hears Leah shout, “I am _not_ your BFF!”

 

But he can pretend he didn’t hear it and his heart swells with positive emotions.

 

\--

 

“How did this happen, again?” Iðunn inquires absently, frowning at the kind of flowery burns on her forearms. She’s taken away the pain, so yay, but her arms are still in a state of charred-ness.

 

“I got into a fight with an incubus,” that’s the right term for Daimon, right? “I disagreed with the cut of his coat.” Well. In a way.

 

Iðunn looks at her. “You are otherwise unharmed?” Her voice is deeper with some sort of intent, and her eyes are really concerned. Her grip on Steph’s wrists is tighter now.

 

Steph tries to pull her wrists away, but Iðunn merely tightens her grasp. “I do not need to call a tribunal together?” Iðunn questions.

 

Oh. _Oh_. Mentioning that an incubus gave her the wounds on her arms, which are definitely defen— _oh._ “Oh, no,” Steph assures her. “These are, like, it.”

 

Iðunn shakes her head and goes to get some sort of cream that smells like apples and aloe and something else Steph can’t place. “I cannot heal these wounds completely. They were made with magic and ill intent, and the combination of those two can never be completely erased. What I can do is remove the wound itself, though the scars will remain.”

 

Steph stares down at her hands as Iðunn smears cream and then wraps them with undyed linen. “Oh. I see.”

 

“Do you regret this?”

 

“More scars? I guess I’d kinda hoped that if I had to get more scars, which—considering my line of work—were kind of going to happen, no matter what, that they would be less noticeable than this.”

 

“You can always wear long sleeves,” Iðunn says kindly, knotting the linen and going to the sink to wash her hands. “I will send you with a spool of linen and a pot of this cream. Change the bandages three times a day for three days, and it will banish the burns completely as well as roust out infection. The scars will remain, but they will not pain you.”

 

Steph stands up, pulling down the sleeves of her dress (yes, her dress. She had seen it when her wardrobe, ehm, arrived, and it was ridiculously girly but ridiculously pretty, with a full skirt and a tight—bodice? and full sleeves. Perfect dress to hide various weaponry in) over the bandages. “And let me guess, if there are any complications, I should come see you right away?”

 

“Perhaps you should come see me anyway,” Iðunn teases, drying her hands on the linen of her robe. “If you continue injuring yourself thus, you should learn how to take better care of your wounds.”

 

Steph laughs. “Ha. No.”

 

Iðunn raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps it would give you greater appreciation for my craft, so you would cease spending so much time here.”

 

Steph’s smile slips a notch. “My mom was— _is_ —a nurse, and if she didn’t train that into me, I really doubt you could.”

 

If Iðunn notes her lapse, she doesn’t say anything. “Begone, troublesome child,” Iðunn directs. “I have other patients to attend to.”

 

“Later.”

 

“Indeed,” Iðunn agrees, watching her leave.

 

Once out of the healing halls, Steph turns away from the tower and towards Amora’s temporary place of residence. This was her first magic or spy lesson, either/or, according to the note Amora’s messenger raven had dispatched to her. (Honestly, she had expected the raven to start saying ‘corn’ or something.

 

If it had said, ‘you know nothing, jon snow,’ she would have upped and quit _right then_ ).

 

She rubs one forearm absently. She honestly has no idea what to expect.

 

A lot of what Bruce and then Babs taught her is a lot like spy work in some ways. Waiting and listening, hearing that bit of info that the speaker doesn’t think is important but actually gives the whole game away, body language (though _obviously_ Cass was-- _is_ better at that Steph ever was), sending discreet messengers, putting pieces together of a wider plot, being hyper vigilant, etc.

 

But magic? She _hates_ magic.

 

Okay, so maybe the italics aren’t necessary, but magic makes absolutely no sense to her. Never has, never will. She’s never been one for the hard sciences, but physics make sense. It works. She can see the practical applications.

 

Magic doesn’t have the same effect.

 

Bubbles of tension start to form in her stomach and fizz up her throat, and they leave a metallic taste behind in her mouth. As she works her way through the building hosting Amora, the sense of imminent nausea increases, until she’s swallowing convulsively in the attempt to keep from puking her guts out.

 

The door opens before she touches it, and Amora waves a dainty hand. “Sit down and breathe before you swoon from distress.”

 

A chair turns towards her, waggling its arms invitingly. “Not really helping,” Steph manages.

 

“Behave,” Amora orders and the chair straightens up immediately. She pushes herself away from her table and takes a flask of something steaming to Steph. “Drink all of this.”

 

Steph catches a whiff of it and frowns. “What’s in this, besides ginger?”

 

“A few other things,” Amora says airily, leaning against the table, green eyes intent. “Drink it, please.”

 

“I’m not going to end up magic-roofied, am I?”

 

“It’s merely an infusion of ginger and bergamot,” Amora rolls her eyes. “I have found that it deals well with nausea of any kind, in particular caused by magic.”

 

Satisfied, Steph chugs it, and nearly heaves. It’s _terrible,_ but it kills the nausea near perfectly, and she can even breathe in a few minutes without gagging.

 

“All right, first test,” Amora says when Steph can breathe again. She snaps her fingers, and the clack of handcuffs answers her. Steph looks down, feeling the cold press of metal against her wrists.

 

There are green handcuffs on her wrists.

 

“Um, excuse me,” Steph says. “How exactly is this a test?”

 

Amora leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Basic test of magic. Every Asgardian knows a _little_ magic, even if it’s a basic fire spell. Even Sif.”

 

There’s definitely some sort of history between Sif and Amora. No one’s bothered to tell her what it is.

 

“And I think that for all you likely wish otherwise, you’re more like me than like Sif,” Amora continues, smiling gently. It’s a genuine smile, not the hidden-meaning ones that Amora usually gives her. “You fight from the shadows. You’re not meant to be a brawler. That requires a specific frame of mind, a specific way of looking at the world. In short, you think like a spy.” She nods at the handcuffs. “This is a basic test given to every Asgardian child, to gauge their magical ability. How long it takes you to free yourself and your chosen solution is what magical ability is measured by.”

 

“Yeah, except you put _handcuffs_ on the girl trained to be an escape artist.” To demonstrate this, she starts to twist her wrists in the way Bruce taught her.

 

Amora’s laugh stops her. “You misunderstand,” she explains when she gets her breath back. “Magic is about will. As long as I will you in the handcuffs, nothing you do will get you out of them. Your will must be stronger than mine. You are certainly welcome to try to work your way out of them, but you will not succeed.”

 

Steph narrows her eyes at her fellow blond, and continues to try to work her way out of the cuffs. Amora’s smirk does for her what Bruce’s constant underestimation did—she works harder, but almost in response, the cuffs tighten until her fingers tingle.

 

Scratch that, she decides after looking at Amora again. It _is_ in response.

 

She tries to imagine her way out of the cuffs. _I am not wearing handcuffs. I am not wearing handcuffs._ Unsurprisingly, no dice.

 

“Illusion is powerful,” Amora says softly some time later. “All I have to do is provide the image, and the brain provides the rest. All magic is manipulation and illusion. It takes a truly skilled magician to create where there was none. I can do it when I am pressed, but,” she shrugs elegantly. “It is much easier this way.” She gets up from her chair and crouches in front of Steph. “Remember: _sometimes the best solution is the most obvious_.”

 

Steph tilts her head, considers this. Amora seats herself again, returning to her book at her table. _I am not wearing handcuffs. I am not wearing handcuffs._

Wait.

 

She considers the handcuffs, and realizes however Amora planned it, there is a flaw.

 

In front of her, a deep purple key shimmers into existence.  It’s tiny, and it fits exactly into the keyhole Amora either planned into the cuffs, or forgot. Or maybe Steph created it herself.

 

Yeah, _right_.

 

She unlocks the cuffs and rubs her wrists with a pained sigh. While the cuffs didn’t touch the burns (though it came very close), the pins-and-needles sensation is a _little_ hard to bear.

 

“Impressive,” Amora tells her, offering her a flask of what is—yep, mulled cider. With a brandy chaser. Steph puts it aside. “That only took you four hours and thirteen minutes. When my teacher first gave me the test, it took me eight hours and thirty seven minutes. You have the capacity for magic.”

 

“But not magic,” Steph deadpans, peeking under her bandages to check the burns. Yeah, they’re still there.

 

“Controlling magic is innate—no one _is_ magic. Magic is just energy that you can learn how to command,” Amora counters. “Everyone has the capacity to some degree, thus the test. The test proves how creative you can be. Generally, the more creative a person, the more magic they can learn to control. Like I said earlier, it takes a specific method of thinking to control and command magic. So you have to think like a spy.”

 

“That’s all well and good, but I don’t know if I could do it again.”

 

“How did it feel?”

 

“Didn’t feel like anything,” Steph shrugs, not nearly as elegantly as Amora. “I just saw an opening, and took it.”

 

“Magic always has a feeling,” Amora urges, waving her hands to reinforce what she’s saying. “What did you feel? Think hard. Close your eyes, and _focus_.”

 

“Triumphant. Satisfied. Happy,” Steph turns over her thoughts in her head. “You know that kind of pleasant twist when you can solve stuff? Like that.”

 

“That is what associates you with your magic,” Amora concludes. “When you can solve problems, that is what ties you to your magic.”

 

Well, that means magic’s going to be in short supply for her.

 

“We’re done for the night,” Amora tells her, putting away her book. “That first manifestation is always the hardest.”

 

Steph checks the time and—yep, time to go. “It’s dark out,” she observes, pulling on her jacket and scarf over her dress. It doesn’t actually look terrible.

 

Amora waves her hand, and a small light goes on, flickering green. It goes to hover over Steph’s right shoulder. “Witch-light. It’ll guide you back home. First spell anyone learns, and I’ll teach it to you tomorrow, along with a basic spell of concealment.”

 

“Awesome,” Steph yawns, leaving. She waves goodbye, before disappearing into Asgardia at night.

 

Amora lives on the edge of Asgardia, and Loki’s been with Leah all day long. If there were milkshakes, Steph claims no knowledge (though she did press a couple of bills into Leah’s hand that morning). It’s possible they’ve been training Thori—the little bastard has been far quieter than his norm, and she hasn’t missed the constant ranting. It’s like listening to a mash-up of the Joker and Black Mask, sometimes.

 

Though Black Mask sounded far more affectionate during, well—

 

 _Don’t go there_ , she reminds herself.

 

There’s a crackle that goes down her spine as a warning, before Daimon Hellstrom _pops_ into being beside her. His trident is glowing and steaming slightly, but otherwise, the only light comes his (still flaming, what is her life) eyes and the witch-light. “Oh hey. No Apparition for you?”

 

Daimon coughs. “Not exactly.” He’s so clearly hovering, that Steph almost wants to laugh.

 

“What’s up?”

 

Finally, Daimon gets on with it. “How are your--?”

 

“Burns?” She tilts her head, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. “Iðunn healed what she could, but she said that since they were made with ill intent and magic, the burns will always be there, even only as scars. They’re kind of pretty, actually.”

 

Daimon picks up her right arm and motions if he can take the bandages off. She pulls her jacket arm off and pulls up her sleeve, and he whistles as he takes in the damage. “Oh my god—“

 

“Please don’t say it,” Steph says.

 

“Say what?”

 

“You’re going to tell me how sorry you are, and how it will never happen again, and how much of a Knight Templar you can be sometimes, and yes, it makes you a right ass, and have you mentioned how really sorry you are?” She looks up at the sky. “Of course, you’ll phrase it differently, but the meaning is the same.”

 

“This was not okay, and I lost control of my powers,” Daimon rumbles.

 

“Well yeah, duh. If I thought you actually meant to hurt me, I would have punched you out again and ran for cover. And yeah, okay, what you did is _not_ okay, but we’ve all lost ourselves sometime.” She points at him with the index finger of the wrist he’s still holding. “And if you do it again, I _will_ hurt you. And then sic Leah on you. But I don’t think you’re abusive. Anger happens. It sucks. We move on.”

 

“At least let me make it up to you somehow.”

 

“How is it that an incubus can actually have a puppy-dog pout?” she asks the Universe rhetorically. “How?”

 

“I need your permission,” Daimon says quietly. “Verbal. That’s the only way this works. Being an incubus, my world has certain rules—like a verbal invitation into a dwelling. What I want to do—it wouldn’t be much, but it would certainly help you.”

 

She eyes him, before sighing. “Yes, Daimon Hellstrom, I hereby grant you this one-time-only permission to do...whatever.”

 

The flame is his eyes sharpens slightly, and he kisses her exposed wrist, right on the tip of the scar that circulates her entire forearm. It warms slightly, and he assists her with her jacket before doing the same to her other scar. She lets him hold her wrists casually—the contact is nice.

 

“They’ll tingle when you’re in danger,” Daimon explains. “Like—pins-and-needles. Nothing flashy, they won’t glow or anything, but since you travel with the kid and he’s a danger magnet, you need everything you can get.”

 

She looks at her scars, still kind of innocuously pink, red, and white, and then up at him. “Oh wow. Thanks, actually.”

 

He taps a red line around her wrist. “What’s this from?”

 

“Magic test from Amora,” Steph twists her mouth into a grimace. “She put me in a pair of handcuffs—“

 

“Ooh, kinky.”

 

“—and I had to get out of them, and why do I feel like you’re perving?”

 

“Have you _seen_ Amora? God, you two....” he stares off into the distance.

 

She shoves him. “Gross! She’s like, old enough to be my grandma. At least.”

 

He waggles his eyebrows at her. “But you didn’t object to the fact that she’s female.”

 

She rolls her eyes at him. “Girl parts don’t exactly turn me away.”

 

He stares at her. “Stories to share?”

 

“Here I am, with an incubus, and he wants to know my previous sexual history. You know, stereotypically speaking, isn’t that _my_ role?”

 

“I just wanted to know—“

 

“Oh, shut up,” Steph sighs, tangling her hands in his hair and pulling him in. She kisses him, gently (kinda), before his arms go around her and then their kiss becomes less of a kiss and more a battle for dominance or something. His hands splay her waist, and he picks her up. In retaliation, she wraps her legs around his waist, and he groans into her mouth, pulling away to breathe.

 

“You’ve got a tinge of hellfire to you,” he observes, hitching her up so she’s not sliding down his body. The witch-light has gone out, and the only light comes from the waxing moon above them. 

 

“That bad?” she asks, rearing back a little to look at him.

 

He shakes his head, grinning slightly. “Bit of a nice change, actually.” He kisses her again, and this time, he’s definitely in charge, but she relaxes into it, letting him hold her. His body is warmer than hers’ (probably a side effect of the whole incubus thing), and she splays her hands over his naked back under his coat.

 

He breaks away at the touch, gasping a little. “Much as I like this, I’d prefer to take it inside.”

 

She rolls her hips against his, grinning. “An incubus who doesn’t go for outdoor sex? What is the world coming to?”

 

“You are way too coherent. And way too hung up on the incubus thing. No, I am not a fan of outdoor sex, because dirt gets _everywhere_.”

 

“Hey, the only supernatural thing I met before coming here was a witch boy,” Steph tells him, biting his earlobe and then soothing it with the tip of her tongue. The sound that emerges from his throat fully attests to his half-demon nature.

 

“Going by the name of Klarion?” Daimon asks, his voice strangled as she continues rolling his earlobe between her teeth and tongue.

 

She breaks away to answer. “Yeah. You know him?”

 

“Ran into him a few times. He’s a—oh my god do that again—traveler like I am. Let’s just say, when you say you’re a Gotham girl, I know what you mean,” the mood’s broken enough that he grimaces in recognition. “God, that place stunk.”

 

“Hey,” Steph says, wounded. “It is my hometown, and yeah, it sucks, but it’s a _city_.”

 

“Nah, you don’t get it. Ever wonder why Gotham got little to no supernatural activity?” She returns to tracing his earlobe and his ear, and his hands tighten on her waist. “There’s an aura there to keep the supernatural out. Considering what else you get, it’s probably—oh shit—fair. Can we _please_ go inside?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she draws it out, turning her attention to his neck, feeling his pulse jump when she nips at it. “I was a teen vigilante in a city. Most of my assignations took place on rooftops.”

 

“Clearly you were with the wrong people.”

 

“Oh, there’s a certain charm,” she glances at him through her lashes. “You _can_ grab my ass, you know. Or were you being a gentleman and waiting for an invitation?”

 

“I swear, if you make another comment about incubi I’ll damn _you_ ,” he threatens, his hands lowering to cup said ass, pulling her even tighter against him.

 

“All words,” she teases, biting his neck with more fervor.

 

He growls at her, lifting a hand to pull her head back by the hair at the nape of her neck. “I’ll show _you_ words,” and he kisses her hard, biting her bottom lip before sucking away the sting.

 

“I should’ve known you get off on,” she gasps when he rolls his hips against hers, combining it with biting her lip again, “b-biting.”

 

“ _Now_ who’s incoherent?”

 

“Points for effort,” she rasps, “but no gold star.”

 

He laughs, right in her ear, and he noses the hollow behind her lobe before she feels his pocket vibrate, against the inside of her upper thigh.

 

She yelps.

 

“Bet you go for the toys, huh?” he taunts in return, somehow managing to get his phone out without displacing her. “Hellstrom.”

 

She watches the arousal flood out of his eyes as he listens, and he slowly leans down, letting her put her feet on the ground as he stares off into the distance. “Be there soon.” He ends the call, looking at her apologetically. “Apocalypse to avert. Rain check?”

 

She holds out her hand. “Gimme your phone.”

 

He hands it to her, and she programs her number in. “Call me when the apocalypse is canceled.”

 

“Deal.”

 

She leans up to kiss him (for all of his faults, he damn well knows how to kiss and it makes her knees go weak to imagine that mouth elsewhere), before leaning back an inch and whispering, “And I’ll tell you about a different blonde next time.”

 

She watches his eyes dilate. “Oh, that is _so_ not fair.”

 

“You’re the one leaving me to avert the apocalypse. Who said life was fair?”

 

He snarls at her (she laughs), and disappears with a pop. She turns to look up at the moon, running a hand through her hair.

 

Her life is _so_ messed up.

 

\--

 

She’s drawn out of a dream involving Cass, Robinson Park, summer, and ice cream (no, lusty reader, it is _not_ NC-17. _Shame on you, shame on your cow._ ) but someone shouting, “ _Stephanie!_ ”

 

Cass nods for her to go on, finishing her chocolate cone as Steph gets up, pulling out a grappling hook and leaving gloriously.

 

Of course, the whole ‘glorious’ aspect is immediately nullified by rolling to a stop in the dark at Loki’s feet. It’s her Loki, but he’s being loomed over by Loki-That-Was. She jumps to her feet, shoving her Loki behind her and glaring at Loki-That-Was, and a twisted black steel dagger appears in her hand. The twisted aspect of what she’s pretty sure is aged sterling silver forms an infinity loop around the hilt, and the blade itself is jagged and not very pretty. But who is she to look a gift...dagger over, and she shoves it in Loki-That-Was’ face. “Back off,” she snarls.

 

Loki-That-Was turns into Nightmare, who backs away from her. “Where did you get that?”

 

Ignoring that, she turns to Loki and hisses, _“Run_.” The kid can take a hint and does so, and she steps forward, pointing the tip of the dagger at Nightmare, who backs away. “Won’t matter where I got this,” she says quietly. “Not if it’s hurting you. What are you doing here, still hurting the kid?”

 

Nightmare’s face twists into a grimace. “I have to _share power_ because of him!”

 

“ _You_ asked for a crown.”

 

“I had to give in to _D’Spayre._ Do you know how humiliating that is?”

 

“Real, I’m sure,” she drawls.

 

“Yes, well,” he makes to move past her, but she waves the dagger at him, and he subsides. “The child needs to pay for that.”

 

“Sorry, you’re Nightmare, no pity for you. Aren’t you Fear, or something?”

 

“I am _not_ Fear. I am a _Lord_ of Fear. Slight difference. Fear rules us all, and we his,” he coughs slightly, “ _loyal_ knights, and I would not take the title of Fear. It would not end well.”

 

“But that whole crown thing would create a coup d’état, right?”

 

Nightmare immediately looks shifty. “Well, I—“

 

She points the dagger at him. “How’s this for a new bargain? You leave the kid alone, and I don’t tell Fear you’re trying to take his throne or whatever out from under him. Why is Fear a ‘he’ anyway?”

 

“I’d take that bargain,” Daimon advises from the wall a little further down. The trident is resting in the crook of his arm and he’s leaning his head against the brick, but as she turns to look at him, he stands upright and walks over to her. “Sweetheart here conscripted my services to deliver a chair to the Queen of the Underworld. She wouldn’t be afraid of contacting Fear Himself.”

 

“Hellstrom,” Nightmare complains. “You’re with this harlot?”

 

“Not in every way that I’d like,” Daimon grouses.

 

“And I’m not paid for my services,” Steph adds, glaring at Nightmare. Only Damian can call her a harlot. With _that_ kid, it’s endearment. With anyone else—no.

 

“How are you here, anyway?” she says in an aside to Daimon. “Is this my subconscious projection of you, or are you really here-here?”

 

“Check with me post-averting the apocalypse thing,” Daimon says cheerfully. “Maybe. Though there’s far too many clothes here if I am a subconscious projection.”

 

“Ugh, _shut up_ ,” Nightmare beseeches. “Shame that if I die in someone else’s dream, I actually die.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“Basic dreamwork rule number one,” Daimon clarifies, leaning on his trident. “The dreamer can’t die in their own dream, but anyone who is an outside party—legit outside party—can die in the dream if it’s not their own.”

 

“Huh,” Steph turns this over, “but I’m not even sure if this is my dream.”

 

“When Loki left, it became your dream,” Nightmare grumps. “You’re holding the dreamweaving in place.”

 

“Wait, so if I kill you,” Steph says to Nightmare.

 

Nightmare’s eyes widen, and he disappears with a poof.

 

Daimon laughs. “Was waiting for that to happen.”

 

Steph looks at the dagger. “This is really creepy.”

 

Daimon looks at it and shrugs. “You needed a weapon, so it appeared. Dream rules, you know.”

 

“Yeah, I saw _Inception_. Still creepy. This isn’t something I don’t think I would’ve dreamed up.”

 

“You never know about the subconscious,” Daimon clears his throat. “Speaking of the subconscious...”

 

She shakes her head at him. “Good night, Daimon Hellstrom,” and then she wakes up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This act seals Daimon as a fully-participating character in aegis, and I luffs him. He's like the love child of Jason Todd and John Constantine (or at least, that's MY reading of him). 
> 
> Next week you get Exiled and Manchester Gods, and I think that's the biggest Act yet, so I will whet your anticipation with that alone.


	4. Act Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General warning for explicit content in this chapter (and only this chapter), and trigger warning for slut shaming language, ableist language, references to rape, nonconsensual touching, references to torture, Mordred, sexist language, fire.
> 
> Another thing, very quickly.
> 
> When I wrote this, it was during the 'Death of the Family' arc in Batman (which I haven't really read, so you'll notice there isn't much detail about it), so yes, Dick and Damian get a slight cameo in this chapter. If it's too soon, I apologize. There is a purpose to that cameo, and it links in with something else that happens later on in this act. Love and internet cookies to those who get the meaning.

Steph wakes up.

 

At first, she’s disoriented. She remembered defending Loki from Nightmare, Daimon intruding (was that really him or did she astrally summon him or something? Ugh, magic is _complicated_ ), but she was really sure she had fallen asleep in her (very nice) bed in the tower.

 

Now she has no clue where she is.

 

She gets out of the bed slowly, and she’s in mortal garb, no Asgardian article to be seen. She still has her knives, but that’s it. No taser, no phone, nothing. She pads to the window and the skyline is one she recognizes, but the air itself tastes different. The lighting on the buildings has a tinge of red. Gotham lighting was never pretty, but it was never _red_ before.

 

She turns back to the room. If she squints, it’s _her_ room, from before leaving for Asgardia, but the furniture layout is all wrong. It reeks of a guest room with the dryly-impersonal taste.

 

She hadn’t disturbed the blankets or sheets at all.

 

This will later strike her as odd.

 

In the meantime, Steph yawns and heads downstairs, calling, “Mom?” Longing for her mom—to sit there and tell her stories, about Loki, about Leah, about the All-Mother, Hela, even Daimon—overpowers her and she runs down the last few steps. She can smell waffles, and it’s almost like the last three or so months have been a dream.

 

She comes to a stop in the kitchen. Her mom—and a guy who is _not_ her dad—are laughing while the guy flips up some waffles onto a plate. “Um, excuse me?”

 

Her mom looks years younger. Crystal may have kicked her pill habit, but the lines from the stress had remained. But her mom, right now, is young-looking, and blonde.

 

Steph looks at herself in the mirror. She doesn’t take after her _dad_.

 

The guy is cute, with brown hair and brown eyes. He mutters something to her mom, something that makes her mom laugh out loud and kiss his neck, before darting around him for the syrup and the plates.

 

“Wow, I approve of this guy,” Steph tells her mom, sliding into the third chair at the table. “He makes you laugh, Mom.”

 

Crystal doesn’t respond, and Steph frowns. “Mom?” She knocks her hand on the wood of the table, but Crystal and the guy still don’t notice.

 

She gets up and moves around the table, intending to shake her mom’s shoulder, but—her hand goes right through her mom.

 

She stares. “Mom?”

 

It’s official. Crystal can’t hear her.

 

Steph pushes herself away from the table, out into the street. Same apartment, but somehow slightly better neighborhood than when she left.

 

She heads towards Wayne Enterprises. If anyone had the technology to sense her, Bruce would. Even if it was a tad Ghostbusters for her taste.

 

Her despair is only heightened by the fact that though she tries to avoid people, they can still touch her—or would, except they keep brushing _through_ her and yeah, how JK described the ghosts? Cold shower? That is _exactly_ how she feels right now, thankyouverymuch.

 

It looks like late autumn in Gotham, so it makes sense when she starts shivering, huddling into her thin jacket. Call her crazy, but it almost feels like the cold stems from her shoulders and extends out, like someone’s holding onto her shoulders. She hates it, tries rolling her shoulders, but it doesn’t go away.

 

She stops in front of WE, staring up at the office building. Her despair peaks, and she asks herself—is this really worth it? Any of it? Why would _Bruce_ be able to help you?

 

She shakes her head and pushes the thoughts down, walking around the people to get onto the elevator to get to R&D.

 

Last time she was here (which was super-secret and Babs had used her clearance to get Steph inside), there was several sensors that measured things invisible to the naked eye, including electromagnetic fields. _If_ she’s really here—and she kinda has to be—according to Ghosthunters, wouldn’t she have an electromagnetic field? Ghosts—if they exist—are energy.

 

Granted, she’s reaching, but it’s better than nothing.

 

 _Anything_ is better than standing off, watching the world that’s forgotten you existed.

 

\--

 

“Where is Stephanie?” Loki snarls at Sigurd.

 

“I really don’t think this is the time—“

 

“I. Do. Not. Care. _Where is Stephanie Brown_?”

 

“I don’t know who she is, I swear!”

 

“ _Then why is she not here?!”_

“Loki, maybe you should stand down,” Dani Moonstar says cautiously, holding up a hand.

 

Loki ignores her and jumps up at Sigurd, pressing him up against the wall. His palms warm as he fists his hands in Sigurd’s lapels. “What did you _do_?”

 

“Look, _who_ is Stephanie Brown?” Moonstar insists.

 

“His guardian,” Leah says quietly, entering the room. “Loki, be cautious. Sigurd may not know, and burning him will not help her.”

 

Loki looks at his hands, and yes, there is flame gathered there, charring the lapels of Sigurd’s jacket. He lets Sigurd go, and Sigurd falls to his knees, scrambling away from him. “Keep the crazy kid away from me.”

 

Leah kneels by him, smiling sweetly. “If you do not tell us what you know, you won’t even be able to describe crazy.”

 

Moonstar leans in to Loki. “She’s the scarier one out of the two of you.”

 

“Was that in any doubt?”

 

As Sigurd explains everything—the past spell bought from his older self (Ikol fluffs his chest feathers and bates when Leah and Loki glare at him), the whole sorry story with Bor’s handmaidens—he wraps it up with, “You have to free the D-I-S-I-R before you can get your babysitter back. If she’s not here, then she’s probably in some sort of enchanted coma back in Asgardia, and so she’s safe until then.”

 

“I don’t like this,” Loki complains.

 

“It is the best option,” Leah reminds him.

 

“Where is Stephanie while in an enchanted coma?” Loki points out. “She’s begun to learn the basics of magic. It’s not unusual for the newly-minted magician to unconsciously astrally project themselves.”

 

Leah purses her lips. “A fair point, but one not truly relevant to the issue at hand.”

 

“So wait, this issue about your guardian—she’s essentially asleep in a tower?” Moonstar looks amused, for whatever reason.

 

“She is hardly a princess,” Leah says loftily. “She would not enjoy the comparison.” Leah’s eyes widen, and she turns back to Loki. “Daimon.”

 

“ _Hellstrom_?” Moonstar and Loki say in unison, though in wildly different tones.

 

“Absolutely not,” Loki snaps.

 

“He is a magician,” Leah disagrees. “And he travels the worlds. If anyone could call back a missing spirit, it is him. _And_ he knows her.” She says this as though it settles the matter.

 

“Biblically?” Moonstar questions.

 

Both Loki and Leah stare at her. “What does _that_ mean?” Loki asks.

 

Moonstar bites her lip, her eyes glimmering. “Never mind.”

 

“I will not owe Hellstrom a favor,” Loki snaps to Leah. “Not with Stephanie in play.”

 

“He might waive the usual favor or fee because it’s Stephanie.”

 

“Or he might ask Stephanie to pay it for me.”

 

“This is really starting to sound like prostitution,” Moonstar observes.

 

Loki ignores her for the sake of his mental images.  “I cannot ask her to do that, clean up a mess that _I_ made.”

 

“She is accustomed to it,” Ikol points out.

 

Loki points at the bird. “Hush, Ikol.”

 

“Contact him, merely ask if he can check up on her,” Leah sighs, glancing at her nails. “What he chooses to do when he finds her is something he can decide without your input.”

 

“Excuse me—“

 

“He will not create a reenactment of the original Sleeping Beauty story,” Loki assures the indignant Moonstar. “He sends demons back to Hell for lighter offenses.”

 

“It is an easy enough request,” Leah presses. “And Stephanie would have a protector, should the Soul-Eaters decide to see who remains in Asgardia. Or need I remind you that Kara and Brun know Stephanie?”

 

He’s lost, and he hates it. “Fine,” he agrees, grudgingly. “I will need to contact him.”

 

Leah waves a hand. “I can take care of that.”

 

\--

 

The guy running the machine looks lost when the EM machine starts to spike. Okay, she registers here, that’s good to know.

 

It’s even better when the guy gets on the radio and asks for his manager, who also stands there looking flummoxed. Her arms start to tingle, like ants are crawling up and down her skin, and it’s actually really uncomfortable.

 

Of course, all is explained momentarily.

 

“Why cause so much trouble?” Mephisto—no seriously, _He of the Skeezy Eyes_ —bleeds into being, leaning against the wall and examining his nails. “It’s not like they’ll be able to see you. At all.”

 

“Oh thanks ever so,” she drawls in response, still waving her arms energetically. “It’s not like this was once home or something.”

 

“And yet something has occurred to no longer make this home,” Mephisto points out. He gestures to the window. “I could show you the before and after reality weavings, if you like.”

 

“I’m good, but I’m sure it’s riveting.”

 

“Oh, it is. But the point remains, my dear—where you and many like you used to exist, there is now a glistening gaping wound in the reality weaving. They won’t recognize you, if they _could_ see you.”

 

Steph considers this. “If I punched you, would you take it personally?”

 

Mephisto’s smile sharpens, and—oh, there are fangs. “Quite emphatically.”

 

“Oh damn,” she mourns.

 

Mephisto laughs. “Oh I _like_ you.”

 

“That makes me feel so much better,” she tells him. “Why are you bothering me, anyway? Aren’t there Faustian bargains you could be wheeling with some hapless person who hasn’t read classic lit?”

 

“That gets boring after a while. What happened to an old-fashioned liberal education?” Mephisto straightens his coat. “Things used to be so much more interesting when there were aware opponents.”

 

“I somehow think you can do something about that.”

 

“If my victims aren’t aware, who am I to educate them?”

 

“Well, see?” Steph turns away from the still-confused technicians. “You have the control here.”

 

“You’re right. I do. I can place you back in the reality weaving here, you know.”

 

She tilts her head. “Oh, so _I’m_ the hapless person who hasn’t read classic lit that you’re attempting to wheel. Oh good for me.”

 

Mephisto examines his nails. “I have a lot of power, Stephanie.”

 

And okay, she wishes he didn’t know her name. “That’s exciting. Why would you do that?”

 

“Because I like you.”

 

“Except that you’re Mephisto, so no, I am not actually that dumb.”

 

“Just an offer.”

 

“With no doubt a nasty twist after I’d hypothetically agreed, right? I’m not that blonde, dude.”

 

“I am the Lord of Hell, do not call me ‘dude,’” Mephisto snaps. “And there would only be a nasty twist if you didn’t investigate completely.”

 

“Which would be—always. You would always win, so thanks but no thanks, my lord of hell,” she curtsies ironically, glaring at Mephisto. “If you’re still here after I gesture at the technicians for a solid fifteen seconds, I have the right to punch you.”

 

Mephisto predictably scoffs and bleeds out.

 

The bewildered techs have called in Bruce, and she knows it’s Bruce, but it’s not the Bruce she knew. They’re identical, but the Bruce she knew carried himself differently, and his smile was a hair different.

 

This Bruce—this Bruce....

 

This Bruce hasn’t died.

 

Bruce listens politely but ultimately resolves the issue by asking if it poses a danger. When it doesn’t, Bruce shrugs and inquires why they’re mucking about with the EM machine in the first place. All the technicians look sheepish, and Bruce leaves in—what isn’t exactly disgust, but it’s closer to that than impatience.

 

Crushing despair hits her again. This was her last chance.

 

She wanders up to the roof of Wayne Enterprises, but it’s not the tallest building in the Gotham skyline anymore. She eyes the tower a few buildings over, and finds her grapple.

 

Sitting on the ledge of the tower that she’s never seen before, she looks over the Gotham skyline. Her mom is younger, dating a guy she’s never seen, Bruce is different, no one would recognize her even if they could see her (and Mephisto may be a manipulative bastard but on that one she’s going to trust him), and she has no idea how to get back.

 

And she may not feel welcome in Asgardia unless she’s with Sif, Loki, or even the All-Mother (at times), but it’s more home than Gotham is right now.

 

Or could ever be again.

 

Maybe it’s a good thing her daughter ceased to exist. She can’t imagine giving up her daughter to anyone in this new Gotham in the hopes her daughter would have a happier life than she has had.

 

She hears the padding of footsteps, and she half-turns to see Damian entering the balcony. “Hey kid,” she says automatically, smiling at him. He looks softer, in some ways, and he’s not wearing a godawful blazer and stuff. Instead, he’s wearing a shirt and jeans, and he still doesn’t look ten, but at least he doesn’t look like a miniature adult.

 

He sits down next to her on the ledge and sighs. “What’s wrong, kiddo?” she asks.

 

He doesn’t answer—oh right. Can’t hear her.

 

“Damian?”

 

“Grayson,” Damian sighs. “What is it?”

 

“Bruce is worried about you,” Steph feels really awkward. Dick and Damian always had a vibe she never really got, and that isn’t gone. Damian _moves over_ so that Dick can sit next to him.

 

Holy _shit_.

 

“The whole Joker thing has everyone worried, but since the last time you ran into the Joker, he drugged you and—“

 

“We agreed to never talk about that,” Damian cuts in.

 

Dick smiles, and damn, Steph has missed that. “Fair enough. The Joker makes it personal for everyone, but you have more reason than everyone except maybe Babs, Jason, and Bruce.”

 

Damian shakes his head. “We’ll stop the Joker and get—ugh. No. It’s just that...” For once, Damian looks like the child he actually is, and Steph is reminded of Loki. “Do you have to go away for so long?”

 

“Oh Damian,” Dick sighs, wrapping an arm around Damian, and Damian— _I shit you not_ , Steph realizes, flabbergasted—leans into the hold. “I’m sorry.”

 

Over Dick’s shoulder, she sees Daimon beckon to her. She blinks at him, because _what_? Daimon rolls her eyes, and gestures for her to join him. Carefully, she gets up, and takes Daimon’s offered hand. “C’mon, sweetheart, we’re going home.”

 

He tucks her against his chest, and they’re leaving, and Steph can’t find herself grieving about the loss.

 

\--

 

Sigurd and the Disir have been dealt with, Hellstrom was called, and Hela takes Leah and Loki back to Asgardia before the rest of the Asgardians, and then Hela nods to Hellstrom and goes to Hel.

 

“I can’t stay,” Leah says—almost anxiously. “The rest of them will be here momentarily, and—”

 

“Go,” he sighs. “I will let you know when she has awoken. Thori, guard the door.” The dog growls at him, but sees Stephanie unconscious on her bed and doesn’t have any other response than to waddle outside the door and set up guard there.

 

Hellstrom is leaning against the wall, absently rolling the stave of his trident through his hands. “She’s gone. Body’s here but spirit is gone.”

 

“Can’t you just,” Loki waves his hands, “kiss her awake or something?”

 

Hellstrom looks like he wants to laugh for a moment. “Okay, a) she and I aren’t in love, b) wrong curse, c) this isn’t Fairy Tale Land, true love’s kiss is not the cure to everything, and d) I like my women awake and _willing_.”

 

“Well, what _can_ you do? Why wasn’t she with us in San Francisco?”

 

Hellstrom shrugs. “Most I can tell is that she’s lost. I can find her, but I’m going to need you in place so that I can find her—that anchor thing, remember? As for why she wasn’t with you in San Fran, I have a couple of ideas,” he stretches slightly, “mostly that she hasn’t recognized this dimension as home.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Lots of things go into recognizing a place as home, kid. Feeling welcome is one of the things.” Hellstrom holds up a hand to stave off Loki’s inevitable objection. “I have no doubt you and Leah and Hela and the All-Mother make her feel as welcome as you can think of, but there are small things—usually called ‘microaggressions’—that make it clear she’s not welcome. Discussing her mortality is one of them. Constantly having your competence questioned is another. She’s a good person and she does what she can, but this isn’t her home dimension. She’s _making_ it her home, as her body hasn’t rejected this dimension and showing it by killing her, but it’s not enough for her spirit to instinctively recognize this place as _home_.”

 

“Wait, what do you mean about rejection?” Loki demands, feeling very cold.

 

“It’s one of the fail safes the universe has for making sure that people stay where they belong. When you’re in the right dimension, your body is okay. You may have health issues, but you’re where you’re supposed to be,” Hellstrom heaves a sigh. “If you travel to other dimensions, you get a trial period, but if you don’t make that dimension recognize you by meeting various people necessary to how that dimension runs, you start to die.”

 

“She’s met me, the All-Mother, you, Hela—”

 

“Amora, Mephisto—that counts for a hell of a lot—Spider-Man, Iron Man, Sif, Thor, and Captain Marvel,” Hellstrom reels off. “They know her name, they know what she looks like, and they’ve exchanged actual sentences. She’s well on her way to belonging here as though she was born here. Throw in a couple of other people, and she’s done. So don’t worry about that part, kid. But let’s get her home, okay?”

 

Loki nods, coming to stand next to Stephanie. She doesn’t look like she’s sleeping peacefully—her mouth and brow are twisted, and she looks...tormented, and he smoothes her hair over her forehead, away from her eyes. “Let’s get this done.”

 

“Put your right hand on her forehead and your left hand on her heart,” Daimon directs, drawing a chalk circle around them and the bed. “I’ll be able to find her once you establish the connection. I’ll faint because it’s astral travel, but as long as you hold that position, we can get home.”

 

Loki very carefully does so, feeling awkward about placing his hand between Stephanie’s breasts. They hold no appeal for him whatsoever, but he is not certain if it is because it’s Stephanie or if it’s because she is a girl.

 

“Call her,” Hellstrom orders, casually slashing open a palm and dangling some blood over a candle.

 

“What?”

 

“Just say her name, and tell her to come home.”

 

“Stephanie, come home,” Loki tells his unconscious guardian. “Please, come home. Leah and I miss you, and we have things to tell you, things we accomplished. Please, Stephanie, come home.”

 

Daimon clatters to the ground, unconscious, and Loki’s palms heat up, but he keeps it up, calling her. “Stephanie, please. I can’t do this without you. Even Ikol misses you.”

 

“I do not,” Ikol protests.

 

“Shh, go with it. Stephanie, come home.”

 

Stephanie’s eyes open suddenly, and she sits straight up, coughing.

 

Loki immediately claps her on the back lightly, bending her over slightly so she can put her face between her knees and breathe.

 

“Easy, sweetheart,” Daimon urges her. He looks at Loki. “Mead, now.”

 

“No, no mead,” Stephanie rasps. “Drinking—not a good idea.”

 

“Speaking with more experience in dimensional travel, I’m telling you, you need something alcoholic,” Daimon says gently. “Loki, get mead now.”

 

Loki goes, running across the active Asgardia for a tankard. The All-Mother tries to get his attention on his way back, but he tells them, “I’m helping Stephanie,” and they let him go.

 

Stephanie is in the privy (he can hear the bath faucets running), and Daimon is rubbing his face with both hands. “God,” Daimon says raggedly, eyeing Loki. “Is Sigurd dead? ‘Cause I just might kill him.”

 

“There’s a line,” Loki says firmly, “and my number will be called before yours’. What happened?”

 

“She returned to Gotham, but, and I quote, ‘it’s the Gotham that happens after Reavers attack the reality weaving.’ I don’t even know what Reavers _are_ , but given how she said it, I don’t think I want to know.”

 

“So...”

 

“They couldn’t see her. At all. It messed her up pretty badly, you might want to give her some space for a while.” Daimon reaches for his trident. “I’ll see you around kid.”

 

“You’re not staying?”

 

“I’m not the right person for her to be around right now. Thing is, I don’t know who is.”

 

Well...that’s good news. Loki watches Daimon ‘poof’ away, and he knocks lightly on the privy door. “Stephanie?”

 

“I’m decent,” Stephanie replies tiredly from the other side. Loki pushes the door inward, and sure enough, Stephanie is sitting on the lip of the tub, her feet and calves in the still-filling tub, wrapped in a purple silk robe. Her eyes are red and her face is blotchy. When she sees Loki staring, she scrubs her face. “I can’t cry prettily. Story of my life.”

 

“I brought mead,” Loki places it on a side-table. “Stephanie, I do not mean to pry, but—your family? They could not...”

 

Stephanie shakes her head, her blonde hair flapping with the movement. She wraps her arms around herself, staring into the bubbling water. “I guess I should have expected it. You know, with the whole my-mom-forgetting-me-unless-I-was-with-her thing.”

 

“That does not make it easier.”

 

“No, it doesn’t.” Stephanie lifts her left foot out of the tub, examines it, and places it back in the water, standing up and lifting the hem of her robe so it doesn’t drag in the water (Loki looks away, though it’s not scandalous), and walks through the water to turn off the faucets. She sits back down on the lip of the tub. “Mephisto came to see me while I was there.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“Yeah, that was my reaction. He offered to place me back in the ‘reality weaving’ of my home dimension,” Stephanie sighs, a long-suffering sound. “I told him to stuff it, though—obviously—more polite than that. I refuse to be in debt to him.”

 

“Why would he even try?”

 

“No clue, and he wouldn’t say, but then, he wouldn’t.”

 

“You should tell the All-Mother,” Loki says quietly. “If Mephisto is taking an interest in you, they should know.”

 

“I actually think it’s to get to _you_ , kid,” Stephanie shifts, making the water splash a little against the tub walls. “If I’m not here, where’s your protection? Also, if I’m placed ‘back in the reality weaving-thing’ does that mean I’ve never been here at all? How would everything that’s happened change if I wasn’t there?”

 

“Oh gods.”

 

“Yeah. It’s not something that occurred to me until right now, but I think it’s a thing, and you should be careful. I don’t know if Mephisto wants me out of the way so he can manipulate you or possibly end you. I have no clue, but it means that he recognizes me as a threat of some kind, and that you’re an asset he wants to work. We _both_ need to be on our guards. Now go away, I need to bathe and cry some more.”

 

“Stephanie, you can...you can come to me, about that.”

 

Stephanie finally looks at him, and her smile is not much of one. “No I can’t, kid. There’s a reason why parents try not to cry in front of their kids, and it’s the same reason I can’t cry in front of you. Now go away. Go talk to the All-Mother, go hang out with Leah, maybe train the troublesome creature. I’m going to need some time.”

 

“Very well,” Loki says stiffly, and he goes.

 

\--

 

One thing that no one tells you about astral travel is that it is _exhausting_.

 

And she didn’t even intend to do it, which somehow makes it even more draining. Maybe if Steph asks Amora or Daimon about it, she’ll find out why, but in the meantime, sleeping all over the damn place is a thing.

 

First she falls asleep in the tub, but thankfully it’s sloped and textured enough that slipping and drowning can’t happen. When she finally manages to wake up and get out of the tub, she barely makes it to her bed before sleeping again.

 

She’s woken up by Thori, who has somehow managed to throw himself over her feet and his snores set her bed on fire.

 

“I do not want a Jane Eyre reenactment, get _out_.”

 

“I merely asked him to guard your door!” Loki protested at 2AM when she shoved an armful of growling Hel-puppy at him.

 

“That’s not what happened. But thanks anyway,” she had replied, before sinking back into the no-longer-on-fire bed, smelling the smoke but letting the window stay open.

 

Eating with Asgardia?

 

Oh yes. She and Loki sit against the back wall, and before she knows it, Loki is shaking her awake.

 

“Perhaps you should see Iðunn,” he recommends.

 

She scowls but goes to the see the healer, who, upon hearing the whole thing, points her towards a bed.

 

What Loki is doing during this, she has no idea, but she thinks Sif and Thor figure into it somehow.

 

She has a dream during this whole thing, and it’s the same dream, but every time she goes back to sleep, it’s a continuation and it’s weird and she _is not a fan_.

 

It starts out with her and Loki walking through Asgardia, before Sif and Thor call to Loki, who runs to them. She lets him, tucking her hands into her jacket and grinning as Sif and Thor do the whole grab-the-hands-and-swing thing with Loki, who laughs and laughs.

 

Then, somehow, the road between them lengthens, until she sees Loki more as a young adult, still between Sif and Thor, who treat him like he’s their son.

 

Where was she in that? Not that there’s anything wrong with Sif and Thor raising Loki—it’d be good for the kid—but she has no idea where she fits into that.

 

Then, Cass appears, like Cass always does when she’s feeling particularly low or lost. Cass entwines their fingers, kissing her cheek. “There is always a place,” Cass tells her. “You just have to find it.”

 

“Will you be there?” Steph asks.

 

Cass smiles her enigmatic smile, swinging their joined hands lightly, watching Loki with Thor and Sif.

 

Her throat has a lump in it, threatening to choke her, and she lets go of Cass’s hand to throw her arms around her and clutch Cass to her. “Please don’t leave,” Steph begs, feeling Cass wrap her arms around her and squeeze just as hard. “I don’t think I can do this without you.”

 

“I will be there,” Cass promises, and then something’s tugging Cass away, and Steph reaches out a hand, and tries to hold onto her, but then Steph’s blinking away sleep, and Amora is sitting there with Freyja, and they both look unamused.

 

“It has come to my attention that I have failed you as a teacher,” Amora announces as Steph sits up, pushing her pillow behind her back.

 

“Oh?”

 

“For the beginning magician, unintentionally traveling can occur,” Freyja explains. She gives Amora a sharp look, and Steph never wants to see that look directed at her. “There are ways to protect one’s self, and Amora has not taught that to you.”

 

“Though I can assure you that it will immediately be the focus of our lessons until you master them,” Amora tacks on.

 

“And I will need you to learn that as soon as possible, for some of our allies in the United Kingdom have asked for our help in dealing with a problem of insurgency. Officially, we do not take a stand on either side—”

 

“But unofficially, we’re sending you and Loki after you learn to protect your spirit while you sleep,” Amora’s smile is predatory. “Consider it your first mission in the field.”

 

“Does Loki know?”

 

“As soon as Amora has informed me you have the necessary protections down, he will be informed with you as a joint briefing.”

 

“It should not take long,” Amora assures her. “It is simple enough to imbue the spell into stones or oils, and the spell itself is not complicated.”

 

“But let me guess, the whole spirit-traveling-unintentionally could wreck the whole plan?”

 

“Yes,” Freyja looks apologetic. “Spirits can be hijacked.”

 

Stephanie blinks. “Back up. You’re going to have to explain that to me.”

 

“Spirits and bodies tend to occupy different planes,” Amora starts. “The body protects the spirit, and what injures the body will not injure the spirit.”

 

“Got that lecture in _Harry Potter and the Extended Camping Trip_. How can the spirit be hijacked?”

 

“When a spirit travels on the astral plane, if it has no clear goal in mind if, for example, unintentionally traveling, those who prey on the astral plane can take hold of the unprotected spirit and control the body to nefarious ends,” Amora shrugs. “Those who intend to travel have protections in place to prevent this.”

 

“So someone could take my spirit hostage and get to Loki?” Steph feels cold.

 

“Yes, or worse.”

 

“Is this the time to mention that Mephisto came to see me while I was traveling?”

 

Amora’s eyes narrow. “What?”

 

“He offered to place me back in my dimension, complete with my presence actually being there and stuff. Is it possible he hijacked my spirit?”

 

“No,” Amora and Freyja say together.

 

“We’d know. The fact that he followed you to your dimension is...problematic, however,” Amora adds. “You are yourself, Stephanie, fear not, but if he could meet you before, he can do it again.” She looks at Freyja. “We’ll start right away.”

 

Freyja nods and stands up. “I believe Gaea has Loki with her in her gardens. He’s useful there, not causing much mischief.”

 

“It is Loki,” Amora points out, helping Steph out of bed and straightening her dress, which is so outrageously maternal Steph has no idea what to do with it.

 

Freyja _almost_ snorts. “Fine. Allow us to restrain his mischief to where we can keep an eye on him.”

 

“Good luck with that,” Steph tells them both.

 

\--

 

“You will fall,” Leah says dispassionately from her perch on top of the wall of Gaea’s garden.

 

Loki looks to find his next foothold. “Hush, Leah.”

 

Thori is yowling at Gaea’s Hel-pup; Loki catches “scum-sucking whoreson” and “drowned catfish” and decides not to ask. “You will fall or you will be caught,” Leah observes.

 

Loki sticks his tongue out at her and swings his leg over the edge of wall, straddling the wall and glaring at her.

 

Leah stares back. “Now get back down.”

 

“You believe I am spurred by negative criticism?”

 

“It is statistically proven to motivate you the most.”

 

“That’s not true.”

 

Leah raises her eyebrows. “Oh really?”

 

“...shut up.”

 

“Why exactly am I helping you ‘break out?’”

 

“Quit using finger quotes. It disturbs me. And the reason, dear Leah, is because I have no desire to be used as entertainment for a squawking infant.”

 

Leah waits.

 

“Okay, the infant does not really squawk, but Gaea is perfectly happy to plop him down next to me on a blanket and wander off, and in the meantime, the child wriggles out of his nappie and walks around naked.”

 

Leah arches a brow.

 

“I’m not actually good with children,” Loki finally explains.

 

“Because you _are_ one.”

 

“That was weak.”

 

“A sharp mind in the presence of stupidity quickly turns to waste.”

 

“Your mind, or mine?”

 

“ _Loki!_ Where _is my child?”_

“Better jump down,” Leah says with quiet malice, glee lightening her face. “Perhaps that naked child got into some trouble.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“I assure you it is mutual.”

 

\--

 

“This spell is about grounding,” Amora tells her, settling herself into a crisscross position on the ground. Steph copies her, feeling awake for the first time in days. “You always want to do it outside as close to actual ground as possible. Symbolism and metaphor are tremendously important in spellwork, since magic is more in the symbolic realm than the physical realm.”

 

Steph reclines back on her hands, tilting her head as she listens. “So everything that I kind of thought was bullshit actually does affect magic? Like the phases of the moon and everything?”

 

“It is not completely bullshit,” Amora says patiently, “the star-cycles and the moon phases can affect the energy you’re pulling in for your spell. Luckily, _this_ spell can be done any time, since grounding does not require a special time. There are other spells, like spells of invisibility, that are better done during the dark of the moon—which, yes, I _will_ teach you once you and Loki return from Great Britain.”

 

“So...what do I do?”

 

“Imagine an anchor, something to tie your soul to this plane,” Amora instructs. “It’s better if it’s an actual object, not a person, because—”

 

“Metaphor matters, and with spellwork if that person dies, so does my anchor. Got it.”

 

“Slowly imagine that object, something to essentially pin your soul here,” Amora says quietly. “I know we’ve meditated, so use those techniques as you visualize it.”

 

Steph falls into that pattern of breathing, casting her mind to think of something that fits for her. “Good,” she hears Amora breathe. “Keep going.”

 

Something to anchor her spirit, something to _pin_ her to this reality. Coolness washes over her, and she peeks at her hands, her eyes widening when she sees a glowing, purple...knife. One of the slight, artistic knives she picked up from the armory, actually.

 

“That works,” Amora says with satisfaction. “Out of curiosity, why a knife?”

 

Steph shrugs. “No clue. It created itself, I think.”

 

“That’s even better.”

 

“Why is it purple?” Steph moves her index finger in a circle, to emphasize the point.

 

“Magic is usually green, but I’ve run into magicians who have magic that has alternate colors,” Amora shrugs, tying her hair back with a green leather band. “It does not mean anything—it is certainly not the color of your spirit or such manure as that.”

 

“So now that I have my anchor,” Steph watches her misty knife thing bob gently, “how do I imbue it in stuff?”

 

“Make it solid,” Amora instructs. “Make it _real_. Make sure you can pick it up.”

 

Steph blows her bangs off her face, focusing. The mistiness of the knife goes away almost immediately, and the purple deepens until it’s almost eggplant. Finally, the little knife drops out of the air and lands in her hand, and she runs her fingers over the edges, just to double-check her work.

 

Examining a thin line of blood, she looks up at Amora. “It’s definitely sharp enough.”

 

“Lovely,” Amora smiles, pleased. “Now put in the mortar I brought and grind it to power with the pestle. You need it to be fine.”

 

Steph looks at her. “Why?”

 

“The salve that will treat the object you will keep on you at all times must have the powdered anchor in it,” Amora explains, pulling out a couple of jars from the bag she brought with her.

 

“Gotcha.”

 

Steph moves the pestle, concentrating on keeping the knife solid enough to grind to powder. She hears Amora uncap jars, but she doesn’t pay attention to her.

 

Finally (and her wrist is aching with the proof), the knife has been ground down to a fine powder. Amora peeks over her shoulder. “Fantastic, Stephanie. Here,” she shoves a handful of different herbs into the mortar, and Steph dutifully (ha) starts to grind them down too.

 

Once _that’s_ done, Steph picks up the mortar and starts to pour the powder into the small bottle full of some kind of clear oil (she thinks it’s mint, but she could be wrong), and she shakes it at Amora’s command.

 

The powdered knife must act as some kind of bonding agent, because the oil turns green and becomes more a salve instead of oil. Steph squints at the salve in the afternoon sun—there are purple sparkles embedded in it. Yep, there’s the anchor.

 

“This needs to soak up some sunlight,” Amora unfolds her legs and stands up gracefully. Steph follows, less gracefully. “We’ll leave it out in direct sunlight for an hour. Meet me back here then, with an item you would be wearing every day, regardless of the colors and outfit you’d be wearing. Bring something else, something small that you can slip under your pillow while you sleep.”

 

Steph salutes her, and goes away.

 

She has very little jewelry, and what jewelry she has, she isn’t about to wear every day. Something small that could slip under her pillow she does have, but she thinks she’ll use that—the picture of her and Kara—and slip it into her corset every day. For something that she could slip under her pillow...

 

She climbs the stairs to her room, and stares at it, folding her arms and looking over her stuff. She unfolds her right arm and fingers the tip of one of her knives as she thinks, before looking down and realizing—oh. That would work.

 

She picks up her current book and takes out the picture with Kara, folding down the corner of her current page (wow, _The Handmaid’s Tale_ is terrifying), before putting her book back down and exiting. She bumps into Loki on her way out—the poor kid looks hunted, and he ducks around her. “Hiding, bye!”

 

“Who are you hiding from?” she calls to him, but he either doesn’t hear her or he’s ignoring, because there isn’t any answer.

 

The question is answered when she leaves the tower, because Gaea is striding towards her, looking absolutely furious.

 

“Where is Loki?” Gaea demands.

 

Steph cringes inwardly. “No clue,” she lies, her voice bright. “I’m on a mission for Amora.”

 

Gaea nods, stepping out the way for Steph to walk past her, as confidently as possible. Once Gaea doesn’t see her, Steph breaks into a run.

 

She _never_ wants to deal with that again.

 

\--

 

“This will work magnificently,” Amora eyes the newly treated knife and laminated photo with approval. The salve leaves slightly oily residue; according to Amora, that will dry off within an hour or two. The residue seals the magic of the grounding thing.

 

“That’s good,” Steph yawns. God, she’s still _so tired_. If she gets this tired from unintentional astral travel, how tired would she be if it were _intentional_?

 

“You’re all set for your trip to Great Britain,” Amora decides to take a maternal shift, stepping behind Steph and starts to knead at her shoulders. Steph lets her head fall forward, giving Amora better access.

 

“That’s so _good_ ,” Steph moans pornographically (she peers up through her bangs to make sure that Daimon isn’t around to catch it).

 

Amora laughs. “First direct attempts of magic always leave you tired and sore. It goes away with practice.”

 

“You mean I won’t always be this tired? _Fantastic_.”

 

“It takes time to build up magical reserves,” Amora is clearly amused, but she digs her fingers in _just right_ and Steph goes boneless.

 

“Holy shit, this is better than sex.”

 

“My dear Stephanie, _nothing_ is better than sex. Speaking of which, you should enjoy yourself. You’re young, why do you keep yourself locked up that tower, metaphorically speaking?”

 

Steph peers at Amora. “There’s not a right person, I guess.”

 

“Really?”

 

Keeping the extent of her activities with Daimon quiet is looking like a _really_ good idea. “I had someone at home,” _Cass_ , “but stuff went down and I miss them.” There. That’s certainly true enough.

 

Lying with the truth is something Steph had to learn a long time ago.

 

Amora sighs. “Don’t _save_ yourself for them. Especially if you decide to stay.”

 

Danger, Will Robinson. “I haven’t made any decisions yet,” Steph says guardedly, her tone belied by her absolutely relaxed posture. Whatever else Amora is, she’s _fantastic_ with her hands.

 

Imagining those hands elsewhere—oh god, Daimon, _get out of my head_.

 

Steph immediately resolves to have sex soon, if only to prevent thoughts of this ilk.

 

“Shame,” Amora purrs, pressing the knots that Steph always has in her shoulders, working them out. Steph holds in a yelp; it hurts, but in a good way.

 

“I don’t want to pull a River Tam with my home dimension,” Steph mourns. She isn’t that badass.

 

“Who is River Tam?”

 

“Absolute badass. She destroyed the Reavers, and it was _amazing_.”

 

“Reavers?”

 

Steph shudders. “Really, really terrible monster-things.”

 

“What do Reavers have to do with your home dimension?”

 

“How can this dimension have _Buffy_ but not _Firefly_?” Steph demands.

 

She feels Amora shrug. “I do not know.”

 

Steph shakes her head. “I swear. Anyway, Reavers tend to make a mess of things wherever they go. They’re just...nasty.”

 

Amora presses her hands between Steph’s shoulder blades, and Steph’s body arches, and she bites her tongue and tastes blood. God _damn_ , Amora is fantastic with her hands.

 

Finally, Amora pulls away, patting Steph’s back absently. “That is enough for one night, I think. You and Loki will be called to the All-Mother tomorrow, so get some rest.”

 

Steph collects her grounding things, and yep, the residue’s gone. She tucks the knife back into its sheath, and the photo goes into her pocket.

 

Amora lets her leave, already poring over another text, and it occurs to Steph as she goes that she hasn’t seen the grey creature or the head of Dr. Blake in a while.

 

\--

 

Stephanie rousts Loki out of bed at dawn.

 

He yawns at her, catching the clothing she’s shoving at him. She’s in a hurry, and he is not entirely certain as to why, but he accepts that she can be strange and he obligingly dresses and follows her out, ordering Thori to stay behind. Stephanie leads him to Gaea’s garden, and he cringes. Gaea’s child was finally found playing patty-cake with a squirrel and two chipmunks, covered in mud but giggling madly.

 

Gaea has not quite forgiven him.

 

Freyja and Iðunn are also there, lounging on chairs while Gaea is seated on the grass, her child in her lap, listening intently to Gaea’s story about a woman and the ocean.

 

Gaea ceases to speak once they see him with Stephanie, and Freyja stands up. “Doubtless you are wondering why we have called you here so early today.”

 

Loki yawns in response. Stephanie nudges him.

 

“We have some allies in Great Britain,” Gaea explains, rubbing her child’s head gently. “The Manchester Gods, as we have been told, are causing great trouble.”

 

“I heard,” Loki says stiffly. Stephanie looks lost, but she has spent her days studying with Amora or sleeping. She missed the messenger a few days past.

 

“You have a desire to see the Otherworld, do you not?” Gaea smiles.

 

“You want me? But—the non-interference. I interfere by simply existing, All-Mother.”

 

“What do I have to do with this?” Stephanie’s voice is low, but he sees in her eyes that she knows what this is about, and it surprises him.

 

“Officially,” Iðunn examines her nails, “we are investigating their claims that the Manchester ‘gods’ threaten their divinity, and we are sending you as our ambassador.”

 

“Politically, isn’t that--?”

 

“Suspect? Well, yes, as you are mortal. But the story given with your diplomat’s paperwork is that we trust a mortal of Asgardia to see with clearer eyes than the Aesir, who are so famously quick-tempered with a strong sense of pride, to boot.” Iðunn leans back. “It is even true. In the meantime, Loki will investigate the Manchester gods and bring about a lasting peace. Simple enough?”

 

“You’re making _me_ a diplomat.”

 

“Indeed,” Freyja affirms, looking at Stephanie, her eyes soft with affection.

 

This startles Loki, who looks from Freyja to Stephanie and back again.

 

“You will wear Asgardian insignias with pride, advocate for our interest in a peaceful Otherworld, and see the scope of the damage for yourself,” Gaea decrees, bouncing her giggling infant on her knee. “Amora has prepared the necessary accouterments. You leave tonight on one of Stark’s planes, and fly directly to Heathrow, where a diplomatic envoy will meet you.”

 

“Um, pause,” Stephanie runs her hands through her hair. “I’m not exactly...diplomatic.”

 

“Those of the Otherworld rarely spend any time with mortals,” Freyja assures her. “Your plainspoken ways will be put to your mortality, not insolence. Though I do of course advocate for discretion.”

 

“Of course,” Stephanie smiles, but there is a bite to it. Of course. She jabs a thumb at Loki. “And what is the official story for his presence?”

 

“You are his guardian,” Gaea says with some surprise. “Where you go, he goes. Is that not the case?”

 

Stephanie closes her eyes and sighs. “I guess so.”

 

After this, Stephanie is whisked away by Iðunn for Amora to dress up, and Loki goes to find Leah.

 

He is not doing this without her, because even he needs help, and he finds Leah in her cave, reading a battered text he knows Stephanie gave her. Or bought for her. One of the two.

 

“Pack a bag,” he tells her grandly, perching on a rock. Ikol alights on his shoulder and Thori gnaws on his ankle. He kicks out at the dog, who backs up. “We’re going to the United Kingdom, London to be exact.”

 

Leah looks unimpressed. “ _Why_ would we do that?”

 

Loki examines his gloved fingertips. “To stop a war.”

 

“ _You_ were chosen to stop a war.”

 

“Is that so hard to believe?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Sometimes I hate you,” he complains.

 

Leah rolls her eyes. “I bleed for you,” she deadpans, returning to her book. “Besides, I only have one dress.”

 

“Then no packing is necessary! For you, at least.” Loki twists his face into a grimace. “Stephanie is going as Ambassador of Asgardia, complete with full costume.”

 

Leah looks interested at that. “For true?”

 

“Indeed. Stephanie, as you can likely guess, is _thrilled_ ,” Loki rolls his eyes. “She does not believe she possesses the necessary diplomacy.”

 

“I think she may be surprised,” Leah considers. “Very well. When are we leaving?”

 

“Tonight. Stark is sending one of his cars, and I believe we are using one of his plans, since this visit is to be official. You should likely charm your way into the vehicle before we arrive.”

 

Leah nods. “That is easily arranged. My lady Hela should be alerted.”

 

“Why?”

 

“She should know where I am should she attempt to contact me.”

 

Loki pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh very well.”

 

\--

 

Loki and Leah sleep on the plane. Perhaps that’s for the best, Steph muses, staring at her costume with dismay. It cuts the comments to a minimum.

 

Holy shit, her _costume_.

 

Whoever designed it at least had her somewhat in the ballpark, because unlike what counts as Asgardian formal attire, this at least has a full skirt with sleeves. It’s very—RenFaire-ish, actually.

 

Okay, she’s seen _The Other Boleyn Girl_. It’s got the square neckline (that Natalie Portman rocked so well, even if her portrayal of Anne Boleyn was creepy and frankly ridiculous and not historically accurate or anything) edged with gold (legit gold. Steph has never seen so much gold in her _life_ and it’s making her edgy, pardon the pun), and the gown itself is deep purple, almost black. There’s a gold chain-ish kind of belt around her waist, and her hair is twisted up in a chignon, held in place by (gold _again_ ) hairpins. On her belt is a small charm with Loki’s sigil.

 

“Spells are in your hair accessories to keep your clothing from mussing,” Amora had informed Steph happily when displaying the full entirety of the wardrobe for this specific ambassadorial mission (and no, she wants out, this is not her strength). “Just speak your name over the accessories for the day or night events, and it will also do up your hair. I am aware you are capable, but let us make it as simple as possible.”

 

Amora had also given her a glamor to hide her scars. Politically, it makes a sort of sense—let’s _not_ let the Otherworld know that the mortal representative is a warrior...maybe. The logic kind of breaks down when she considers that Asgardia is first and foremost a warrior culture, but since they’re sending a mortal in their place, maybe showing off the scars from her torture and teenage vigilantism probably isn’t the _best_ idea.

 

But Steph doesn’t like it. She kind of hates her scars, to be honest, but they’re _hers_.

 

Steph tilts her head back now on the corporate jet’s couch, closing her eyes. Everything—she does mean _everything_ —she was outfitted for for this mission-thing is all heavy and ornate, speaking of the wealth of Asgardia and she really hates being the spokesperson for that kind of thing. She grew up working-class. Food stamps were a thing in her childhood. Wearing enough gold that could probably pay for college _and_ grad school for just one day? Seriously weird.

 

And to make it worse? The same amount of more gold and silver and jewels and stuff just to make sure that she’s making the adequate picture of Asgardia’s wealth could pay for college/grad school of her entire block back home.

 

She was never edgy around Tim or Bruce or Dick, despite _knowing_ they had money. Guess it’s a little different when you’re _wearing_ it.

 

“Breathe, Steph,” she orders herself, sighing. “Don’t work yourself into a tizzy.”

 

She gets why ambassadors usually come from rich families. She does. But—ugh. She usually tries not to make class a _thing_ , but god it’s hard when you’re wearing, like, the crown jewels.

 

What would Cass do? She’d probably laugh that quiet giggle she had, reminding Steph not to take this so seriously.

 

“And then I’d kiss her,” Steph says out loud, and okay, she and Cass had, um, enjoyed themselves, but since Cass was...Cass, and never all that great with physical affection, little things like kissing her because Steph could had never actually happened.

 

When I get her back from Limbo, Steph vows, that will actually happen.

 

She half-expects Daimon to Apparate into the jet (she wouldn’t put it past him), because he hasn’t called her or anything since he helped bring her back. She’s called him once and texted him twice with no reply, and the piece of her that will always be a little in love with Tim is gnawing her metaphorical fingernails, wondering if she’s done something wrong.

 

The rest of Steph bluntly tells that little piece to shut up, it’s Daimon’s problem, not hers.

 

It would be so much easier if she could sleep, but she’s never been able to sleep on airplanes, the few times she’s been on them.

 

Instead, she opens up her laptop and pops in _Tangled_ , curling up in her seat and watches the drama unfold.

 

When in doubt, watch Disney films.

 

Once _Tangled_ is over, she deliberates between _The Princess and the Frog_ and _Mulan_. She decides to go with _Mulan_ , and by this point, Leah is awake, and Steph makes room for her on the couch so they can watch together.

 

They’re quiet. It’s nice. Leah can be so biting (but only around Loki), and Steph’s not exactly an introvert, but quiet is...nice. Sometimes.

 

Halfway through _Mulan_ , Loki wakes up and he curls in on her other side, laughing quietly at Mushu’s antics and biting his fingernails when Mulan is discovered. They get through half of _The Princess and the Frog_ when their pilot announces they’re about to land at Heathrow, and the Otherworld messenger person is there, waiting for them at the tarmac.

 

The guy dressed in a tunic and blue woad paint bows deeply in front of Steph. “Greetings, Lady Stephanie. I am Caber, bard of Camelot and messenger for the Otherworld. I will be taking you and...your charges,” he looks askance at Loki and Leah. Loki doesn’t see it, but Leah does, and Leah folds her arms and glares at the bard. Steph’s mouth twitches.

 

“That’s grea—I mean, that is perfectly adequate.” She looks at Loki. “What is it?”

 

“Can we stop for a moment at the gift shop? There is something I need to purchase,” Loki looks at her with eyes made liquid emerald. She rolls her eyes in response. “Leah, go with him?”

 

“Yes, my lady,” Leah says quickly, grabbing Loki’s wrist and towing him towards the doors leading in Heathrow. “We’ll be back.”

 

Caber sweeps his arm over the waiting vehicle. “Would you like to get in while we wait, Lady Stephanie?”

 

“No, I’m going to wait for the kids to get back. Safety and all,” Steph fakes a smile, and it mostly works.

 

Caber nods soberly, standing at parade rest with his hands loosely clasped behind his back.

 

They wait for a while, about fifteen-twenty minutes, which seems like forever when it’s quiet.

 

Finally, Loki and Leah make it back, Loki proudly wearing an “I LOVE LONDON” shirt. Steph catches Caber rolling his eyes, and Steph presses her lips together to hold in the giggles. “Got everything you need?” she deadpans to the two mischief-makers.

 

Loki nods excitedly, scrambling into the car after Leah. Caber politely waits for Steph to slide into the waiting limo, before joining the three of them inside. Loki and Leah cluster on one side, pointing at various landmarks and giggling to each other (well. Loki’s giggling. Leah looks like she wants to smack him). Steph leans back against the seat, drinking in the familiar, yet subtly different, sights.

 

God, she misses Beryl. Beryl would laugh herself silly at Steph dressed up like a right proper ambassador, and Beryl would get Steph to laugh about it too.

 

“Have you been here before?” Caber inquires, seeing her mentally check off the landmarks she knows.

 

“Once, with a friend,” Steph tells him, leaning in a little so as to not to interject between Loki and Leah’s byplay. “She managed to show me all the sights of London in about ten minutes.”

 

“She must have been a skilled driver indeed.”

 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Steph says wryly, thinking of her death-grip on Beryl’s buggy attachment during the entire ride. Her voice drops as she thinks about it. “I miss her.”

 

Caber nods politely.

 

Too late, Steph realizes that that may not exactly be kosher in terms of ambassadorial behavior. Ah well.

 

They arrive at Stonehenge, and Caber carries her bags (it’s rather sweet), while Leah and Loki act like general eleven-year-olds, pushing at each other one moment before ducking in to whisper the next.

 

God, she feels old.

 

They step through a newly-magic portal thing, and Steph’s body tingles as they cross the threshold. Guess learning magic makes you more attuned to it or something. She rubs her forearms self-consciously as someone—Loki gasps out, “Captain Britain?”—greets them. Also, apparently Merlin exists.

 

That’s interesting.

 

At least Otherworld horses aren’t the size of Asgardian horses.

 

\--

 

Stephanie gives them leave to depart from the festivities as soon as possible. Loki almost feels bad about abandoning her, but he wants to know what’s going on, and Stephanie will be fêted about what looks like Avalon for several hours before they finally tell her the extent of the damage.

 

Also, Mordred apparently gets along swimmingly with Arthur and Merlin, and he’s attempting to flirt with Stephanie.

 

Stephanie is non-responsive.

 

He and Leah follow Captain Britain out. Captain Britain is surprised to see them following him, and his eyes narrow. “Little Loki, why are you really here?”

 

“Stephanie is here, representing Asgardia in an official capacity,” Loki offers, tugging at his t-shirt hem. “The official stance of Asgardia is that we cannot help, but we’re willing to listen. _Unofficially_ , the All-Mother sent me, mischief-maker extraordinaire, to help.”

 

“Complete with ego,” Leah snarks.

 

Loki glares at her and Captain Britain crosses his arms across his chest. “So this is whom the great All-Mother of whom we have so much assists us in our hour of need. Two children who have not even hit puberty.”

 

“And an ambassador,” Loki chirps, feeling bitterness twist his stomach into knots.

 

“Indeed. The Asgardians, who have a reputation for inborn superiority, have sent a _human_ to represent them. We are so blessed.”

 

Loki bites his tongue. In truth, the All-Mother had specifically chosen Stephanie as an example of their power, that they were so secure in their power that they could trust a human to adequately represent them. Though Captain Britain’s interpretation would be more likely to be taken as the true one.

 

“Show us the extent of the damage,” Leah says, her voice clipped. Loki is grateful for her presence—what he cannot say, she does.

 

“Hm,” Captain Britain growls, before leading Loki and Leah to the stables, where they all find horses. Stephanie had not been pleased with the beasts. She is a less-than-adequate rider.

 

The damage is not far, and Loki is disturbed. That the Manchester gods have gotten so close to an Otherworld stronghold speaks the strength of them all. “They have been attacking your places of power?” Loki asks quietly, gently directing his mare a little closer to Captain Britain’s gelding.

 

Captain Britain’s mouth tightens. “Yes. In addition to that, they have imprisoned the Red King, and while my king is not taking proper notice of that, I have.”

 

“Do they have their own place or places of power?” Leah inquires, flicking a narrow-eyed glance over Ikol, who has settled on her shoulder. Loki sees her file that bit about the Red King away for future reference.

 

“Yes, but we cannot find them,” Captain Britain agrees.

 

Leah and Loki exchange a look. “But _we_ might,” Loki muses. He turns his horse back towards Avalon. “I have seen enough.”

 

He and Leah gallop away, leaving Captain Britain behind as the Manchester gods demand his attention with a fire-bomb.

 

“What are you thinking of?” Ikol demands, flying above their heads.

 

Leah speaks first. “Daimon Hellstrom.”

 

Ikol chuffs. “How exactly do you propose to find him?”

 

“Oh, that’s easy,” Loki finds himself saying. “Follow the exorcisms.”

 

He spares a thought for perhaps returning to Avalon, if briefly, to tell Stephanie of his intended whereabouts, but then he remembers Mordred kissing her hand and resolves to say nothing.

 

Leah’s spell finds Hellstrom soon enough, at a small pub in the outskirts of London. It is a seedy place, a perfect place for an incubus-working-on-the-side-of-good to get a drink, let a little loose.

 

Loki half-hopes he finds Hellstrom letting loose with someone.

 

Instead, the bouncer (how does a place this seedy have a bouncer?), drags him and Leah to Hellstrom, who is sitting alone, gazing a glass of scotch with sunglasses on, a near-universal signal of a hangover according to popular media. Hellstrom’s sunglasses slip a little down his nose as he looks at them, the bouncer challenging him if he knows these two kids.

 

Hellstrom sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately, I do. Not you,” he tells Leah. “I like _you_. Loki, on the other hand....”

 

“Hey!” he protests. He looks at him. “Where have you been, anyway?” Since you helped me wake up Stephanie two weeks ago. Not that I have a stake in your absence or anything like that.

 

“Bender,” Hellstrom grimaces, sitting upright and draining his scotch glass. “I did 23 exorcisms, and 5 general banishments in about six days. I haven’t felt this bad since I burned a druid in a trashcan and spent weeks waving his remains everywhere. ‘Piss me off, get burned in my trashcan of doom’ kind of thing.” His eyes flick over them, the flame in them dying slightly. “Where’s Stephanie?”

 

“In Avalon,” Loki answers, leaning forward. “Have you heard that the Otherworld is at war?”

 

Hellstrom pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, leaning back. “Hard to miss. There are signs when the gods are at war. What do you want?”

 

“The Manchester gods have been attacking Otherworld places of power,” Leah says softly. “The Manchester places of power are not known. Could you find them?”

 

“I _could_ ,” Hellstrom agrees. “But the Otherworld has better mages than a Hogwarts school reunion, so why ask me? And why is Stephanie in Avalon, not here with you?”

 

“The issue with Otherworld mages is that they’re known,” Leah tells him. “You’re much more under the radar than they are, and the Otherworld would pay you handsomely for your services.”

 

“Stephanie is representing Asgardia as our ambassador to the Otherworld in their time of need,” Loki hesitates, before adding flippantly, “being romanced by Mordred.”

 

Leah kicks him under the table, but for all of Hellstrom’s protestations that he and Stephanie are hardly exclusive, Hellstrom sits up. “ _Mordred_? That traitorous son of a bitch?”

 

“Excuse me,” Loki protests.

 

“Morgaine _was_ a bitch, I’m not being facetious. What is Mordred doing in Avalon?”

 

“Apparently they’ve forgiven all family grievances,” Leah says gracefully.

 

Oh, Loki loves this girl.

 

Hellstrom settles back in to his seat. “You want to find the Manchester places of power? Then what?”

 

“Then nothing,” Loki shrugs. “I just need the information right now.”

 

Hellstrom sighs. “Done, kid. I expect to be paid in full.”

 

“Oh, you will be,” Loki assures him as he and Leah vacate.

 

On their way back, Leah observes, “I recall seeing Mordred attempt to romance Stephanie, not _actually_ romancing Stephanie.”

 

“Harmless manipulation,” Loki tells her.

 

“It was also a way to measure what exactly he feels for her,” Leah does not sound surprised. “She is in love with another.”

 

“But she also believes in that if you cannot be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”

 

“True. But when she manages to retrieve her love, where will Daimon go?”

 

“ _I_ do not have to solve that problem.”

 

“You are an ass, Loki.”

 

“Only sometimes.” They are quiet as they enter Avalon. Stephanie’s quarters are set a bit from the rest, and the party is long over. Loki is certain that there are adjoining rooms for him and Leah within Stephanie’s suite, so they head there.

 

Surprise surprise, there is still a line of light under the crack of Stephanie’s door. No luck trying to sneak in.

 

The oaken door opens without a sound, and Stephanie is seated diagonally from the door in front of a vanity, washing off her face. She hasn’t taken her dress off yet, but her hairpins are pulled loose, and her blonde hair has grown to be very long, touching the small of her back. “So where did you two go?” her voice is flat, and Loki realizes they _are_ in trouble.

 

“We saw the damage the Manchester gods have been doing to Otherworld places of power,” Leah explains, Loki sitting on the edge of Stephanie’s four-poster bed that dominates the room. An open door leads to a privy, but the light is off. On the other side of the room, close to the wall, two trunks lay open on an empty bookshelf, one much smaller than the other. The large one contains Stephanie’s clothing; the smaller the jewelry the All-Mother loaned her for this diplomatic trip. Next to them, in the corner, there is a screen set up; a nightgown rests on top of it. “It is great.”

 

“And then?” Stephanie’s movements are quick, economical. She _is_ angry. She reaches for a thin cotton towel, drying off her face and wiping the last traces of make-up away from her eyes.

 

“We found Daimon Hellstrom and persuaded him to find the Manchester places of power,” Loki takes up the narrative. He watches Stephanie’s reflection in the vanity mirror. Their eyes meet, and Stephanie’s gaze is hard. “He has been on a bender, fighting and disposing of evil, for the last six days,” he does not know why he feels he needs to explain Hellstrom’s absence, only that he knows Stephanie wants the explanation.

 

“Has he,” Stephanie’s voice is still clipped, and she gets up. “Leah, can you help me unlace my corset? I sent my maid away for the night when we didn’t find the two of you hours ago. It wasn’t fair to keep her up while I was waiting.”

 

The two of them go behind the screen, Stephanie’s dress thrown over the screen into the trunk as a flash of purple. The underskirt, the same shade as the dress, joins it, and then the nightgown is retrieved. Leah steps away and Stephanie follows, holding what looks to be a truly uncomfortable garment and puts it away, folding the dress and underskirt properly and sliding it into the trunk. “So, essentially, the Otherworld is in deep shit unless you can bomb the hell out of the Manchester sites.”

 

“Essentially,” Leah agrees, sitting next to Loki on the bed. Try as she might, Stephanie does not look intimidating in a white, lacy nightgown.

 

Stephanie realizes this as she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and she sighs. “Fantastic. Is this information I’m supposed to know?”

 

“I cannot think of why you would not,” Loki says. “Have they alerted you as to their plans for tomorrow?”

 

“We’re going to tour the Otherworld, and then the night after tomorrow, there’s going to be a ball.” Stephanie frowns. “There’s a war going on, a war they’re _losing_ , and they’re throwing a party.”

 

“People need to know they’re going to be okay,” Leah points out. “A party is a way to do that.”

 

“Still.” Stephanie sits down on Leah’s other side. “Apart from the warriors, like Arthur, Merlin (who would have thought I’d meet _Merlin_ , for heaven’s sake?), and Mordred and those people, no one is taking this seriously. Not even the Lady of the Lake, who, for your information, is Nimue, not Viviane. Also, Nimue is the one who was Merlin’s lover. Supposedly. Well, it’s not exactly supposedly any more. Merlin and Hugh Hefner would get along _great_.”

 

“Hugh Hefner?” Leah shakes her head. “I do not wish to know.”

 

“That’s probably for the best,” Stephanie sighs. “Go to bed, you two. It’s going to be a long day for all of us tomorrow. There’s a bedroom with two beds through that door,” she gestures towards the privy, “it’s on the other wall inside the bathroom. My maid has delicately assured me she will be by to wake me up in the morning. _Fun_.”

 

She herds the two of them inside their room, which is just as large and expansive as Stephanie’s, and she bids them goodnight, before crawling into her own bed.

 

Leah strips off her overdress, watching as Loki prepares for bed. “That’s creepy,” he tells her.

 

Leah shrugs.

 

He rolls his eyes, blows out the candle, and falls asleep almost immediately.

 

\--

 

Nimue and Arthur take her to see the damage done by the Manchester gods after lunch. There’s desperation to it, a “please tell the All-Mother we need help, _please_ ,” to it.

 

She feels bad, she really does, but the Otherworld didn’t help with the Serpent. She was there, and _she_ did, and she hadn’t even been in this dimension for 24 hours when it happened. If she could, where the hell were they?

 

She glimpses the frightened children and hates herself.

 

Nimue and the other priestesses of Avalon (seriously, _Avalon_ ) are trying to run triage between the injured and the displaced, and she listens in. She’s heard her mom run through triage on one of their many Friday nights spent playing Scrabble, and she wants to know how Otherworld triage differs from mortal triage.

 

...not much, apparently.

 

Arthur stands by her and explains Nimue’s actions, and she tolerates it. One, telling him off for presuming she doesn’t know about triage is undiplomatic, and she really does want to do well with this. Two, she can pull enough of an Elle Woods to want to be underestimated until it matters.

 

Loki and Leah stick close to her skirts (she’s in what her maid called a _day dress_. The idea of having to change for dinner isn’t exactly enticing. And she has a _maid_. Steph does not like this. At all), generally acting like frightened kids. It makes her wonder how much of that is an act (because she knows that they’re not exactly frightened, not like the way they’re acting is presuming), in order to make her look credible (Friend to All Children definitely helps trust and credibility).

 

She appreciates it, because it’s helping. In some ways.

 

She’s been in Gotham when the city was at war with itself, during the time when she (indirectly) caused it, and other times, like after Bruce died but before Dick took the cowl. Gotham represented the absolute underbelly of humanity, she’d thought, but Batman and family represented the hope that humanity could overcome.

 

She’s never seen the effects of old-school war until today. The violence associated with the Serpent had very much been limited to what she had seen on Loki’s StarkPhone, but seeing it in the flesh is intimidating. The children sitting on the remains of the road, soot-stained, eyes stony as they see the stretchers with bodies covered in sheets taken out of what were their houses, the parents clutching each other as one of the priestesses quietly calls the death of another child—this is what war is, what war does.

 

The opposite of war is not peace, nor is it creation. The opposite of war is hope. War strips the hope from you, whittles you down to despair. Once despair has crept into your soul, hope cannot take root.

 

She remembers seeing that with Tim. Thank _god_ for Conner.

 

Loki startles her out of her musings by slipping his gloved hand into hers’. “Stephanie? Are you all right? You’re crying.” With her free hand, she touches her cheek.

 

She looks down at Loki. “I guess I am.” Leah offers her a scrap of handkerchief, and Steph takes it, rubbing her eyes.

 

“I think you’ve seen enough,” Arthur says softly, offering her his arm as they turn back towards Avalon. Nimue stays behind, to talk with her priestesses. She takes it, Loki and Leah talking to each other quietly as they proceed up the hill, the Tor, towards Avalon.

 

“What are your numbers thus far?” Stephanie asks Arthur once they’re out of earshot of the displaced children and adults.

 

“We are estimating at least eight hundred dead, over the entirety of the Otherworld. Mostly civilians as collateral damage,” Arthur scowls, “the Manchester ‘gods,’ as they have fashioned themselves, have no honor. A few hundred more have been displaced. Homes can be rebuilt, but families cannot be glued back together.”

 

“I know what you mean,” Steph murmurs. God, this is a mess. Hopefully Daimon can come through with the necessary intel.

 

Leah and Loki disappear once they cross into Avalon, but since she sees a quick flash of flame, she’s guessing Daimon has news for them. Arthur leads her to her suite and bows, offering her time to get ready for the dinner. It will be small, ‘intimate,’ he says, with Mordred, Guinevere, Merlin, and Nimue in attendance. She wants to perversely ask about Lancelot and Morgaine, but she has the good manners to nod, disappearing into her chambers.

 

She’s in the process of outlining her eyes with gold (she’s going with the green dress tonight, she thinks), when the door opens behind her and Loki and Leah enter. “Hellstrom came through,” Loki tells her, closing the door firmly. “We’re going to one of the places tonight, see if we can get their attention. I think we might be able to parlay, if given the opportunity.”

 

“That means we’ll be late tonight,” Leah cuts in. She looks Steph over critically, at Steph in the black underdress and black corset. “You will look lovely in Loki’s colors.”

 

“I figured it couldn’t hurt to remind them who I ultimately represented,” Steph shrugs, finishing up her eyeliner and fishing for the green eye crème, painting it in very carefully at the edges of her eyes before filling in the rest of the lid with white eye shadow with gold at its core. It is an exacting task, skeptical Hidden Observer Person, so shut up.

 

Loki and Leah nod. “Good luck,” Loki says in a rush, and they depart as she starts to apply mascara. When her eyes look just this side of seductive enough, she nods and grabs the blush brush.

 

She hears a knock at the door, and assuming it to be her maid (what is her name again?), she calls, “Come in.”

 

Daimon appears behind her and she pauses in brushing the color over her cheekbones. “Daimon?”

 

She stands up, starts to turn, and then he’s right _there_ , sliding a hand into her hair and pulling her forward (she trips a little over the vanity stool, catching herself by splaying her hands on Daimon’s chest, and then he tugs her into a kiss.

 

She fights him, because hell, she’s mad at him for not contacting her and going on a bender against evil instead of talking to her. He slides his right arm around her waist, anchoring him to her.

 

So she bites his lip until she tastes blood. It runs hotter and saltier than human blood, and she gags, reaching for a tissue to blot out the taste. He lets her go enough to do so, smirking at her. “If you wanted to be turned, I do know a vampire or two.”

 

“Do they sparkle?” she hisses, throwing the wadded-up tissue into the small trashcan by her vanity stool.

 

“Oh god no,” he looks her over. “I wouldn’t hang out with that ponce. A _corset_?”

 

“I wanted my other one,” she grumbles. His hold on her loosens, but his hands are still in her hair and at her waist, respectively, “but Amora told me this one worked better with my dresses.” Amora was the one who designed her wardrobe for this trip, and it shows in how much cleavage she puts on display.

 

“I am so not complaining,” Daimon says fervently, ducking his head down to kiss her again.

 

This time, she gives into it, melting against him, sucking lightly on his lower lip before touching his tongue with hers’. He appears to have been waiting for that, because he tugs her hair lightly, allowing him to deepen the kiss and pressing the tip of his tongue to the place at the roof of her mouth that makes her groan, her knees abruptly boneless.

 

Daimon kicks the vanity stool out of the way, shoving aside her make-up to seat her on the vanity, moving her skirt aside so she can wrap her legs around his waist. She breaks away from him, breathing hard. “Your phone isn’t about to go off, is it?”

 

“Nope.”

 

She rests her forehead on his exposed collarbone. “The door isn’t locked.”

 

“So lock it.”

 

“You’re only sort of kind of distracting me, asshole who doesn’t take my calls.”

 

“Would it help if I said I had an explanation?” he inquires, pulling her chin up and kissing the side of her mouth.

 

“Maybe. Depends on the explanation,” she closes her eyes as he kisses her neck, scraping his teeth over her jugular.

 

“I figured you needed the space,” he tells her, sucking on her neck gently before laving it with his tongue. “And sleep, of course. Then I got called for an exorcism, and that kicked off my bender. My time isn’t _entirely_ spent seducing beautiful women.”

 

“So you have others to seduce?” She bites her lip as he traces her earlobe with his tongue—goddamnit, hormones.

 

“Are you jealous?” he sounds delighted, rolling her earlobe between his teeth, his left hand tracing the top of her corset, dipping a finger into her cleavage and out again.

 

“Nah, just need to know if I need to get tested,” she fires back, and okay, it’s mean.

 

He has her up and off the vanity in a second, turning her around and pulling her body against his. She can feel he’s hard between the layers of his pants and her underskirt, and he rolls his hips against hers. “Don’t worry about that,” he rasps. “Incubi are only known for getting their female partners pregnant.”

 

“Which is why you’d better have a condom,” she snaps out. She is _not_ getting pregnant again.

 

“Got several.”

 

“Optimistic, are you?”

 

He finds the slits in her underskirt that allow her access to the knives tucked into her garters, sliding his hand up until he can touch her clit with the tip of a finger through the silk underwear Amora had _insisted_ on. She’s dripping wet, goddamnit hormones, and he hums against her neck, biting it as he flicks his finger against her clit. “Call it a hunch,” he suggests, using his left hand to gently push her stomach, pushing her back against him.

 

“Nice, but the door still isn’t locked, and I have a maid who is devoted almost comically to my propriety,” she gasps out, closing her eyes as he pinches her clit between forefinger and thumb.

 

“Want to play a game?” he offers, thrusting a little against her. “Can you lock the door before I get you to come? You know, to test your magic skills.”

 

“You’ve got—oh shit—to be kidding me,” she protests. “Also, if you leave a mark, I’ll kill you.”

 

He releases her clit to thrust a finger into her, and when she bucks against him in response, he groans, “Is that a promise? I look forward to _le petit mort_.”

 

She closes her eyes, clutching the edge of the vanity with both hands, trying to concentrate. It’s hard when he twists his hand, thrusting two fingers into her and tapping her clit with another. His hand on her stomach starts to exert pressure, keeping her from riding his fingers.

 

Door. Lock. She visualizes it turning, but the slight crackle of her magic is gone, the heat of her arousal completely drowning it out. She can feel her orgasm, it’s close, and Daimon retracts his fingers as he senses it, nudging her shoulder with his nose before biting down slightly. “Come on sweetheart, the lock or the,” he smirks, “the _key_.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“No you don’t,” he says with satisfaction, twisting his hand up against her, and she moans. She’s not...vocal, during sex, except for the whole talking thing, but she hasn’t been touched by anyone except her own hand in a long time, and she’s forgotten the sensation of someone else’s calluses against her clit. That, more than anything else, is making her _this close_ to coming.

 

“Sweetheart,” Daimon meets her eyes in the mirror, and his leather-clad shoulders framing hers, the red of his hair mixing with her blonde—she gets why people have mirrors over their beds now. “The door,” he clarifies.

 

It’s not fair when her head falls back on his shoulder and he’s kissing her, their tongues twisting together, him biting her lip (he’s a biter. She’s not), before running his tongue over the corners of her mouth like he’s memorizing it.

 

He twists his hand just so as she finally gathers the tatters of her control to order the door to lock, and she gasps out loud as her orgasm breaks over her. Daimon’s voice soothes her as she leans back on him, breathing hard. “Easy sweetheart, easy. I’ve got you, you’re safe.”

 

She cracks open an eyelid to peer at him. “...what?”

 

“You’re safe,” he repeats. His eyes flash flame for a second before they turn blue again. “I will never do anything to harm you.”

 

She huffs out a laugh. “Yeah.” Right. Like this isn’t going to end badly in some way when Cass comes here.

 

He removes his hand from her and licks his fingers clean. She watches him, her heart rate returning to normal, but arousal thrums through her, and she turns to him, catching his wrist with her hand. He lets her, his eyes hooded as she finishes up for him, sucking on his fingers before darting her tongue between them. She licks a line up his palm, watching him the entire time.

 

She’d go down on him, she realizes as he shudders, but she refuses to be on her knees. There’s a perfectly good bed.

 

“Are you sure you’re not a succubus?” he rasps out, as if he can hear her thoughts.

 

She rears back, a little offended. “Yes.”

 

He cradles her face with his hands. “It’s not a bad thing,” he assures her, kissing her again. This time, his kiss is gentle, almost reverent, but she arches up against him, dragging her corset-covered chest against his naked one, and she pushes his leather coat off of him, running her hands down his back, digging her nails in between his shoulder blades.

 

He apparently gets off on pain, because he hisses into her mouth, starting to unlace her corset and push it down. He manages to free one of the girls, yanking her hair back to kiss a line down her neck, before kissing her nipple and sucking.

 

She scratches him as she jumps, banging her head against the mirror. It makes a crashing sound, and she hardly notices, only digs her fingertips in a little deeper, because, god, right _there_ Daimon, oh god yes—

 

“My lady?” a muffled noise outside her door calls.

 

You have _got_ to be shitting me.

 

Daimon’s evil and drops to his knees, tweaking her nipple between his fingers before tugging on the corset, freeing her other breast. He rolls the peak of her newly-exposed breast with his fingers, before grabbing the forlorn vanity stool and setting it upright.

 

“My lady?” her maid calls more insistently.

 

She takes in a breath to answer, but Daimon pushes her onto the stool, moving her skirt aside and pushing her legs apart. Her breath explodes from her chest with a whoosh as he licks a path up her pussy, sucking on her clit.

 

“My lady, I’m going to unlock the door,” her maid warns her.

 

“I’m fine,” she forces out, tangling her fingers in Daimon’s hair as he thrusts his tongue into her before returning to her clit, tapping out what is Morse code for ‘SOS.’

 

She glares at him and he winks in response, sucking on her clit before thrusting his tongue in again. “I mean it, I’m fine,” she reassures her frantic maid as Daimon brings his fingers to the party, thrusting them inside her and twisting once they’re there—holy shit, is _that_ the g-spot?

 

“My lady, I’m coming in.”

 

“That really isn’t necessary,” she gasps out.

 

“You don’t sound at all well,” her maid persists, and the door unlocks.

 

Daimon thinks fast and twists the swivel of her chair so that she’s facing the mirror with him between her knees under the vanity, her skirt pulled over him, which clearly hides him and doesn’t hint at him, oh no _holy shit that feels so good_.

 

She tucks the girls back into the corset, reaching for the blush brush on the far side of the vanity with a shaking hand. She’s going to come soon, goddamn _it_ hormones.

 

She feels Daimon smirking. What an asshole.

 

Her maid appears in her mirror, and Steph gestures at her with the brush. “See? I’m,” she coughs to hide her groan, “fine.”

 

Her maid looks concerned. “Your corset is untied,” she puts down her basket of whatever (Steph thinks it might be clean sheets, and is vaguely insulted), walking over to her and lacing the corset back up. “Is my lady excited for dinner tonight? Lord Mordred, Lord Arthur, Lady Guinevere, Lord Merlin, Lady Nimue...truly, you are honored.”

 

Daimon’s fingers twist harder against her newly-discovered g-spot, and it almost hurts, and she focuses on that little bit of pain to ward off her orgasm, managing a smile for her maid. “And I feel honored.” Now go away.

 

No such luck, as her maid picks up the comb and starts running it through Steph’s hair. “Do you think Asgardia would send help, now that they’ve seen how bad the situation is?”

 

Daimon pauses, and she really wants to kill him.

 

“I don’t know,” she breathes out to her maid. “The All-Mother can be capricious. I need to finish my make-up, so...” Definitely the universal term for ‘get the fuck out, bitch.’

 

Her maid gets it, bobbing a quick curtsey before grabbing her basket and going out, shutting the door behind her. Steph pulls up her skirt, glaring down at Daimon. “What the hell?”

 

He looks at home between her knees. “You said your maid was concerned about your propriety,” he drawls, letting her get up so he can crawl out from under the foot space. “I did what I could think of.”

 

She turns her back on him, tugging at her corset. “And it worked so well,” she snarks, pressing her thighs together under the skirt and cursing him mentally.

 

His hands on her shoulders startle her, and he starts to unlace her corset. “I thought we might finally get to the bed,” he tells her, pulling away her corset and undoing the buttons on her skirt. She steps out them, clad only in the silk panties and thigh-high stockings, her knives glinting in their sheathes in her garters. Daimon makes a noise of approval, pushing her gently to the bed, pulling away the knives with care, following with her panties inch by almost painful inch. She sits down, and he kneels in front of her. “Do you consent?” he asks quietly.

 

She figures it’s another incubus thing, like needing permission to enter a dwelling. She kisses his forehead. “Yes, of course I do.”

 

His smirk lights up his whole face (some guys—see: Tim—smile. Other guys smirk), and he pulls a condom from his pocket as he stands up. She assists in pulling off his leather pants (no underwear, of course) and his dick is, of course, even hotter than the rest of him—literally. He’s not as big as some of the guys she’s been with, but that’s okay. She holds out a hand for the condom and he gives it to her, watching with lidded eyes as she rolls it on, pumping his dick twice for good measure.

 

“How do you want this?” she asks, leaning back on her elbows and looking up at him. “Me on my back?” Why yes, it _has_ been in fact years since I fucked a guy.

 

“How about this instead?” He maneuvers her to face the vanity mirror on her hands and knees, settling in behind her and pushing in very carefully. He finds her g-spot again on the second thrust with no effort at all, and she spares a coherent thought to all of the guys who _didn’t_ find it, screw them, and then holy _shit_ , harder and faster you bastard.

 

He bends over her, skin-to-skin contact from her shoulders to the back of her upper thighs, putting him in prime territory to whisper filthy things into her ear, about how she feels and how she tastes and how he likes a girl with a little hellfire in her and then his thrusts become much more ragged, just like his voice, and his left hand moves from her breast to finger her clit.

 

It makes sense that they’re both close, but the contact—god, she could get used to this.

 

She bangs her head against his shoulder accidently as her body jerks and she’s coming, and he’s thrusting away through her whole-body shudders, laughing in her ear before he stiffens, biting at the juncture between her shoulder and her neck as he comes.

 

They collapse in a tangle, he moving to cover her and they breathe in tandem for a while, his head on her breasts and his fingertip tracing her skin. He’s tracing the same place over and over, and he finally asks, “I can feel a scar, but I can’t see it.”

 

“It’s one of Amora’s spells,” she tells him, twisting a strand of his hair between her fingers. “She wanted me to use the amazing power of boobs or something, but since I have the scars from being tortured, she didn’t want those seen because she ‘didn’t want them suspecting I was a warrior,’” Steph quotes, a little tiredly. “That’s probably one of my stretch marks.”

 

“Why would you let Amora do that?”

 

“I was at the hands of a headcase with a power drill for three days,” she tells him. “Do the math.”

 

He stiffens. “Please tell me that bastard’s dead.”

 

“Oh yes,” she says with a nasty curl of satisfaction. “Loki—Loki-That-Was—arranged for his death. It was appropriately nasty, if not grisly. Exsanguination was the official call.”

 

“Good.” Daimon’s quiet, before he says, “I have to go soon.”

 

“You’re leaving me?” she teases.

 

“I’ll be back,” he tells her. “Tonight, even. Don’t want you getting romanced by Mordred or anything.”

 

Steph rolls her eyes. “He’s creepy,” she complains.

 

“He’s Mordred.”

 

“Not tonight,” she tells him. “Though it’s an attractive offer. I haven’t come so much since Kara.”

 

Daimon groans comically, getting up and throwing away the condom. “How can you say something like that and _not_ tell me to show up tonight?”

 

She sits up, watches him get dressed. “Because I’m a tease,” she says primly, getting up and finding new underwear to change into. She feels his eyes on her as she pulls on the new pair, and her blood races in response.

 

“Yes, you are,” he tells her petulantly.

 

She blows a kiss in his direction as she pulls on the underskirt, buttoning it up. She picks up the corset, but Daimon slides in, helping her adjust it and he starts to lace it up. There’s ease of long practice, and he answers her question before she can voice it. “I once knew someone who wore corsets all the time. Had to get into practice.”

 

She bites her lip. “Tomorrow night, though...”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Tomorrow night they’re throwing a ball in my honor, even though they’re in wartime and stuff, and if you have a shirt, want to be my date?”

 

She can feel him looking at her. “Are you sure?” he says at last.

 

She snorts. “I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, I’m only asking you to accompany me to something so I don’t have to dance with every eligible male in the kingdom.”

 

He kisses her neck, right where he bit her, and from the sting she realizes he left a mark. “Okay. I can do that.” Then he’s gone, before she can yell at him from giving her a hickey.

 

She wears a scarf to dinner with her dress.

 

\--

 

The building is primed and ready to go, but there is a timer and Loki is sure that this will work out. Somehow. He hopes.

 

They—he and Leah—must press the all-important button once the Manchester gods are fighting the Otherworld. If it is too early, they will have time to still attack. Too late, it will not matter to the Otherworld.

 

Given Manchester’s industry, and what he knows of the Otherworld, he thinks he could possibly trick Manchester into meeting with him and Leah (not Stephanie, Asgardia is officially neutral but obviously Asgardia sticks with their fellow gods), and maybe—just maybe—he can make this work.

 

\--

 

They’ve gotten through dinner (Beryl had treated her to some of the best, if cheap, food in London the last time she was in the UK, but ‘traditional’ fare is kind of boring), and Arthur wants to check on the state of the war effort. Mordred and Guinevere put up token protests, but she and Arthur are standing arm-in-arm, observing the war, which is totally going badly.

 

Merlin and Nimue disappeared at some point (Steph...really doesn’t want to think about where they’ve gone), and Mordred is subtly attempting to be arm-in-arm.

 

It’d be sweet if it wasn’t, y’know, Mordred, who pretty lives up to everything she’s ever read/seen/been talked at by Tim about. (Tim was really into _The Mists of Avalon_ for a while). His eyes are _very_ skeevy, borderline Mephisto-esque, and though he’s not tasteless enough to leer down her neckline, especially in front of Arthur and Guinevere, his eyes stray downwards before flicking back up to her face a _lot_. Power of boobs, eh, Amora?

 

She manages to avoid another hand-holding attempt, twisting out of the way to stand on the lip of the wall. Below, the Otherworld army is desperately trying to make a last stand.

 

One day, she will understand how magic and distance works, because she could have sworn that Hadrian’s Wall is in _Scotland_ , and Avalon is way to the south of merry old England. (Thank you George RR Martin, how _would_ I know the UK landscape without you).

 

“Hold the wall!” Arthur roars to his men, startling Guinevere. “ _Hold it_!”

 

Steph espies a flash of green—make that _two_ flashes of green—down in the mess, and her throat clenches as she focuses and makes out Leah and Loki, right in the thick of it.

 

Damnit, she doesn’t have her grapple, but she does have her knives. She’s desperately racking her brains to think of something, anything, but the ground trembles and she careens on the lip, and Mordred grabs her wrist and _yanks_ , preventing her from falling off the wall.

 

Of course, he probably planned it so that she’d crash against his chest.

 

His personal scent of pine, the mead they consumed with dinner, and underneath all of that, the rank scent of old blood, invades her nostrils and she gags, pushing away from Mordred. Whatever just happened, the Manchester army is retreating, but they had managed to firebomb the base of the wall and now the ground itself is on fire.

 

On fire. Where Loki and Leah are.

 

She doesn’t stop to think, she barely even _breathes_. Her fancy clothes bleed away into the pants and tunic she wears for arms practice, and her grapple appears in her hand. She jumps off the wall, turning in midair to fire the grapple at the stone. She feels it connect, and she lands carefully on the burning ground.

 

“Loki? Leah!”

 

The Manchester army has begun to retreat, but the stragglers who clearly feel like there is glory in battle are staying (mostly the giants), and are still stomping about. Steph alternately runs and hacks as the smoke from the fires invades her mouth and nose. Loki and Leah are clustered against a rock, clutching each other, as a giant prepares to swing a giant club at them. Loki’s sleeve is slowly catching fire (though he isn’t aware of it yet), and Leah looks like she’s about to faint.

 

“Hey!” Steph yells, catching the giant’s attention. She throws one of her knives into his eye (hey, it worked for Odysseus, and no, she hasn’t actually read _The Odyssey_ , but she _did_ read _Percy Jackson_ ). The giant howls, clapping one hand to his eye and the other glaring down at Steph. She stands in front of Loki and Leah, two other knives glimmering in her clenched fists. “Pick on someone your own size,” she grits out. _Not kids, not kids_.

 

The giant roars at her, raising one foot to stomp on her. She and her kids cluster together, making a smaller target, but it feels like her right arm is rising of its own accord, and then purple light bursts from her open palm, hitting the descending foot and then...the giant _dissolves_ , little specks of ash flickering everywhere.

 

Steph stares at her palm in shock. What the _hell_?

 

“We need to go,” Loki yells over the flames. He’s bent over Leah’s figure, and Leah has fainted by now. Steph nods, coughing. She bends down and picks up Leah, slinging her over her shoulder.

 

The two of them run for the wall, for the still-intact grapple, and Steph blesses Bruce and his paranoia, because he made their grapple and lines as fireproof as possible.

 

“This is turning into a firestorm!” Loki tells her, waving a not-burning arm at the ground in from of Hadrian’s Wall. Steph turns to look, smoke covering the back of her throat in a grimy mess, and she spits onto the ground, covering her mouth to cough.

 

Loki’s right, though she thought England was too wet to have major fire damage (except for, y’know, the fire of London, 1666). The fire on the ground is mixing with a would-be thunderstorm, but she thinks there’s magic in it, because don’t thunderstorms, like, put out fires? The clouds are roiling, turning a blood orange-y color, and they need to leave now.

 

“Go on up,” Steph yells to Loki. She hands him Leah, and he struggles under her weight before finding the right balance between holding her and holding onto the grapple.

 

“What about you?”

 

“Throw down the grapple once you’re up. Leah needs help.”

 

Loki nods, and starts the process to go up. Steph turns back to the flames, which are starting to nip at her boots. The smoke is _intense_ , and she remembers what Babs told her once, that smoke kills more than fire does.

 

Why the _hell_ doesn’t she have a Bat-mask to filter out smoke?

 

Sweat is rolling down her neck and evaporating, and she’s pretty sure she’s covered in soot, and a finger of fire stretches forward and sets her pant leg alight. She claps a gloved hand to it, putting it out, but she has very little free space available to stand on.

 

Where the _hell_ is her grapple?

 

“Stephanie,” Loki calls down from the wall. She looks up, catching the bloody thing. She shoots it, and propels herself upward just as flame takes the last free space she was standing on.

 

Getting over the wall is an effort, one that requires both Captain Britain and Arthur to help. She lays on the cool stone and coughs, contorting her body into the fetal position as she tries really hard not to hack up a lung. Guinevere kneels down next to her, clapping her back and it helps, but it hurts a little too. Finally, her coughs subside and she sits up.

 

“You should see the Lady Nimue,” Guinevere tells her worriedly, wrapping an arm around her. She looks at the hacking Loki, whom Arthur is hovering over, and the still-unconscious, way too pale Leah. “You all should. She has a potion for this sort of occurrence.”

 

Loki nods and Leah starts to come to, sitting up and rubbing her head, her eyes a little glassy.

 

“Better question,” Steph rasps, glaring at her kids. “What the _hell_ were you two doing down there?”

 

“We blew up a Manchester place of power,” Loki says, eyes bright. Both he and Leah are covered in soot. Steph realizes she probably has it too.

 

“You blew it up?” Captain Britain demands, alighting on the wall. His face and cowl are marked with smoke stains, and his voice is a growl from smoke inhalation.

 

“It’s more like,” Loki looks at Leah.

 

“Unscheduled demolition,” she says helpfully, coughing a little.

 

“Unscheduled demolition. We _did_ call the place ahead and empty the building,” Loki tacks on when Captain Britain’s facial expression doesn’t change. “Besides, once you’ve won, you can rebuild it with your magic and the humans need never know it was destroyed in the first place. “

 

“Brilliant,” Mordred declares, and really, who the fuck is he to decide? “In a war, you must make difficult decisions in order to win.”

 

“Because you have had such a brilliant track record with winning,” Guinevere flares.

 

Arthur lays a hand on his queen’s arm, helping her and then Steph up to standing. “Peace, my lady. We have put that chapter well behind us. Loki, you should have consulted us first.”

 

Loki shrugs. “I _am_ a trickster.”

 

Captain Britain looks like he wants to hit the kid, but Steph sees him look at her, and she stares him down. He can _try_ to hit Loki. He’s standing close enough to the edge of the wall that it would take a single kick to the solar plexus to knock him over.

 

Captain Britain finally throws his hands up in the air and flies off.

 

Good for him.

 

“I can help the Lady Stephanie to Lady Nimue,” Mordred says eagerly.

 

Guinevere eyes him. “I believe I and my ladies are capable of that, but thank you, Mordred,” she dismisses him with a flick of her hand, and dabs at Leah’s forehead with a corner of her dress. “Oh, you poor child,” she says to Leah.

 

Guinevere’s ladies file out onto the wall. “Oh my lady!” says a woman in blue. “So frightful!”

 

Guinevere’s not facing Steph, but Steph is pretty sure the queen just rolled her eyes. “Lady Elaine, please help the Lady Stephanie to Lady Nimue. The rest of you, come here, and help me with Loki and Leah.”

 

The woman in blue wrinkles her nose as she carefully wraps an arm around Steph, taking some of her weight as they head inside, towards Nimue’s wing. Steph bites her tongue, thinking of all the things she could say to ‘Lady Elaine,’ but refraining for diplomatic purposes.

 

Nimue already has some of the injured in there with her, and she frowns when she sees Steph and her kids. “Lady Stephanie? You were out on the wall?”

 

Steph opens her mouth to answer, but only a whine emerges. Nimue’s face clouds. “Forgive me, Lady Stephanie, allow me. You may leave, Lady Elaine.”

 

“ _Thank_ you, Lady Nimue,” Elaine says worshipfully, handing Steph over to Nimue before disappearing.

 

“Pert creature,” Nimue mutters. “Drink this, Lady Stephanie. It will not taste good, but it will prevent death from smoke inhalation.” Steph takes a swig of the offered flagon-thing, and yep, it sucks. Nimue claps a hand to her mouth. “Swallow it,” Nimue orders, when Steph wants to gag. “It will help.”

 

Steph swallows with difficulty, and glares at the remaining liquid in the flagon. Nimue clucks at her. “Finish it, Lady Stephanie. I will return with salve and bandages for your burns.”

 

Her burns? Steph looks her body over, and finds, yep, she has burns on her legs. They don’t look serious—she probably got them from flying over the flame on her way back up to the wall. They might not even scar.

 

Steph sighs and bucks up her courage for the rest of the flagon. The only thing that keeps her swallowing it is watching Nimue press the same flagon on Leah and Loki. Serves them _right_.

 

Nimue returns to her, cutting away her breeches and smoothing aloe over the burns on her shins. “Lady Stephanie, you were on the wall?”

 

“Yes,” Steph says. Her voice isn’t a rasp, but she can’t make it go higher than a whisper.

 

“Then how did you get burned?”

 

“My kids,” Steph tells her. “They were on the ground. I rescued them.”

 

“You could have left that to Captain Britain.”

 

“My kids, my responsibility.”

 

Nimue inclines her head. “Fair enough.” She nods at the burns. “I recognize you will likely wish to bathe yourself. After that, put salve on them again and bind them. Tomorrow morning, it would be wise to let them air out. However, they’re so slight that they should be healed by tomorrow evening.” Nimue smiles slightly. “Just in time for the ball.”

 

“Oh goody,” Steph says gloomily. “Can I take Loki and Leah back with me?”

 

Nimue glances over at them. “I believe so. They just need to bathe as well.”

 

“Fair enough,” Steph nods to her, before gesturing that the kids should follow her. They come.

 

Leah’s still a little unsteady, and Steph steadies her carefully, before moving quickly back to their rooms. Loki is a brilliant child and opens the door for them, rushing ahead to start to fill the tub in the bathroom with water.

 

“Wait,” Leah tells her once Steph puts her down on the vanity stool. “I do not really...take baths.”

 

Steph looks at her. “Why?”

 

Leah looks down. “I only have one dress, and while I clean it, there is....”

 

Steph nods. “Gotcha.” She walks over to her trunk-suitcase-thing and starts rifling through it. She’s a couple of inches taller than Leah, but maybe...yep. She brandishes the (short) under-gown for one of her dresses, which makes it a perfect length for Leah. “Here you go.”

 

Leah disappears into the bathroom and Loki appears out of it, sitting cross-legged on Steph’s bed as Steph plugs in her laptop, trying to figure out how to write the events of today without too much of a ‘human’ bias.

 

“What’s that for?” Loki asks, lying back on the bed.

 

“I promised Amora and the All-Mother I’d write reports for them,” Steph says absently. “I’m trying to do this right. I’m not exactly Hillary Clinton, my queen, long may she reign.”

 

“You did not exactly strike me as someone who paid attention to politics,” Loki observes.

 

Steph snorts. “Oh please. I lived in Gotham, where politicians regularly messed us up. When Hillary Clinton was a senator, she was one of the only ones who voted against turning Gotham into No-Man’s-Land. That kind of thing sticks with you.”

 

“Fair enough.” Loki stares at the ceiling. “What do you think, of the Otherworld?” He flicks his fingers and Steph frowns at the gesture.

 

“What was that for?”

 

“I forgot I don’t have much magic,” Loki admits. “I was intending to ward off listening spells.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“Your room is papered in them,” Loki says with some surprise. “You did not know?”

 

Steph is suddenly finding it really hard to breathe. “Um. No.”

 

“They’re not tied to you specifically,” Loki assures her. “They just want to know what ambassadors will be taking back to their government.”

 

Oh god. They heard her this afternoon— _oh god_.

 

Back to that whole not-breathing issue.

 

“What Loki fails to say is that I already stopped all listening spells in this suite when we arrived,” Leah announces, her long black hair tangled and damp, but she looks all right in the borrowed dress. She glares at Loki. “I know that _I_ value my privacy.”

 

Steph places a hand over her heart, breathing out slowly. That was a heart attack she did _not_ need. “Oh, so we’re good?”

 

“Indeed,” Leah nods.

 

Loki rolls over so he can look at her. “What _do_ you think of the Otherworld?”

 

Steph thinks about it. “I don’t think much of it,” she settles on. “They’re incredibly wealthy, yet whatever is causing the Manchester gods to do whatever they do, they didn’t buy off Manchester or attempt to. They would have told me that.”

 

“They’re very old, and hate to admit they’ve screwed up,” Loki points out. “There are only a couple of societies that are older than they are—the Greeks, the Mesopotamians?, the Chinese, and the Egyptians—and everyone knows what happened to the Mesopotamians. The Chinese and the Egyptians have settled back from interfering in their countries’ affairs, and the Greeks...no one knows what happened to them. The Otherworld is the only one out of them to have survived in their current forms. They hate to change, because then it means they’re no better than their predecessors.”

 

“What happened to the Mesopotamians?” Steph asks.

 

Loki shrugs. “Mesopotamia got swallowed up by the Persians. Everyone’s a little fuzzy on the details, but the Mesopotamian gods were destroyed in the process. It was a nasty business, or so my books have informed me.”

 

“What about the Mayas, the Aztecs?”

 

“They emerged about a century after the Otherworld, but god-time is not the same as human time. When humans conceived of these gods, it was believed at one point that is when they came into being. Since then, we now know that we existed before the humans recorded us.” Loki falls silent.

 

Steph shakes her head. “Change is good, and necessary.”

 

Loki beams at her. “Indeed.”

 

Leah rolls her eyes. “Go take a bath. You stink.”

 

Loki sticks his tongue out at her before escaping into the bathroom.

 

Steph gives up her report for the moment to gesture Leah to sit down. “I’ll comb your hair out, let it dry faster,” she offers.

 

Leah hesitates, but nods, sitting on the stool Steph vacates and observing her in the mirror.

 

Steph starts at the bottom of Leah’s hair—which nearly touches the floor, holy _god_ —trying not to catch the bone comb on any knots.

 

“I know about you and Daimon,” Leah says abruptly.

 

“Does Loki?” Steph returns.

 

“He does not wish to. He does not like Daimon.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I liked him,” Leah says.

 

“And now?”

 

Leah shrugs. “If he makes you happy.”

 

Steph feels a lump in her throat, and she swallows. “Do you mean, you know, like-like? Or just like?”

 

Leah meets her eyes in the mirror, and Leah suddenly looks so heartbroken Steph has a hard time remembering this girl is twelve.

 

“Okay then,” Steph replies, combing almost all the way up to Leah’s scalp. Her hair is more coarse than what Steph expected. “Are you mad at me?”

 

Leah considers this. “No,” she says at last. “You deserve to be happy.”

 

“And you?”

 

Leah snorts. “I am a girl of twelve, and you would have harmed him _most_ grievously had he attempted to charm _my_ virtue.” Leah sighs. “I just liked...liking him.”

 

“You can still do that,” Steph points out.

 

“It would be disloyal to you, and you have never harmed me,” Leah tells her.

 

Steph wants to hug her, but remembers that Leah isn’t really a fan of touch. “Oh chickie,” she sighs. “It wouldn’t be disloyal. Like whoever you want.”

 

“You don’t think Loki and I are bound together?” Leah is strangely intent. “Some have said such.”

 

“Who?”

 

Leah shrugs. “Ikol.”

 

That name again. Steph pushes it out of her mind. “Men and women can be friends without romance,” she reminds Leah. “It’s bullshit when people say they can’t.”

 

Leah nods. “Besides, Loki hardly interests me. He’s overly concerned with his own hygiene. I cannot in good conscience like someone who spends more time on their appearance than I do.”

 

Steph laughs. “That’s one way of looking at it. Don’t date a nineties kid— _all_ the boys spend that much time on their appearance. I think it’s the hair gel.”

 

“My lady Hela put forth a request that while we are all here, that we somehow manage to get her access to the Holy Grail,” Leah says after a moment. “She needs healing from the wound the Soul Eaters gave her.”

 

“Oh, the missing hand thing?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Steph frowns. “Nimue isn’t exactly forthcoming with that kind of thing.”

 

“And so we are uncertain as to how it can be done,” Leah looks skyward in supplication. “Could you make it a diplomatic request?”

 

“I don’t know,” Steph says uncertainly. “I’m not here representing Hela of...Hel. And Asgardia would want to know why I made it. They’re still not fond of Hela.”

 

“The feeling is mutual,” Leah mutters, before stretching. “Thank you, Stephanie. I believe I will retire, since that potion that Lady Nimue gave me exhausted me tremendously.”

 

Steph cocks an ear, and yep, the water’s stopped running. Loki’s probably out too. “Good night, Leah.”

 

Leah surprises her by getting up and kissing her on the cheek. “Good night, Stephanie.”

 

Loki appears long enough to wave a hand at her before trailing after Leah through the bathroom, and Steph turns back to her document, waiting on the kids to head to bed before she runs her own bath.

 

She looks at the time. It’s nearly ten. Dinner was at six, they walked up to the wall around eight, and god, it feels like it was simultaneously ten years and five minutes since her magic acted without a command and vaporized a giant.

 

She _vaporized a giant_.

 

She feels like Sam the Slayer. Oops, I accidently killed an Other. _Oops, I accidently vaporized a giant_.

 

She’s written two more paragraphs before she settles on yes, the kids are probably asleep by now, and she strips off the sooty dress (after a while, you get used to the smoke singing your nose. That’s what Gotham does to you), followed by the corset and underskirt. She has no idea where her maid is (what’s her name again?), but she’s grateful for the quiet, and she sits on the lip of the tub, her feet in the water as it fills up. The heat stings the burns on her legs a little, but she’s willing to live with it if she can get clean.

 

Yay hot water and soap, _you are my favorite_.

 

“Tough night?” Daimon inquires from behind her.

 

Steph doesn’t jump—thank god—but she does glare at him. “You don’t _knock_?”

 

“I did,” he says, tossing his head. His hair is tucked into a messy ponytail, and it suits him. “When you didn’t answer, but I saw the light, I got worried. If someone could overpower _you_...”

 

Steph stares at him, not realizing yet she’s naked as a jaybird. “I think somewhere in there was a compliment.”

 

“There was,” he agrees, raking his eyes up and down her body, and Steph realizes she is, in fact, naked. She _definitely_ does not yelp, but she crosses her legs and her arms, tilting her head up at him. He grins. “Need help washing your back? I’m _excellent_ at that kind of thing.”

 

Steph bites her lip, thinks about it, but finally shakes her head. “As attractive as that sounds,” she looks him over in a repeat of the way he looked at her, “believe it or not, I could not want sex any less than if I had just given birth.”

 

“But you nearly died,” he points out, proving once again that he must have spies or something. “Life-affirming sex is the best thing there is. Besides make-up sex.”

 

“It is,” she concurs. Yep, Kara. “But it wasn’t just my life in danger. It was my _kids_ , and I’m still a little shaken.”

 

Daimon shrugs. “Fair enough. Still need help washing your hair? I somehow doubt you want to be alone right now.”

 

Yes. No. I want Cass. But you’ll do in a pinch. “Okay. Shampoo’s over there.” She watches Daimon shuck off his leather coat (ooh, thanks for the view), and she slides into the now-full tub, going under to get all of her hair wet.

 

For what it’s worth, Daimon’s hands are really gentle as he massages the soap into her hair and over her scalp. She brings her knees up and rests her forehead on them, letting him get to the back of her head with no problem.

 

“So, giants, eh?”

 

Steph sighs. “Giants. Yep. My life is officially a fairy tale.”

 

“Not quite,” Daimon offers. “Too many gods for that to be a reality.”

 

She laughs. “Fair enough.”

 

He sniffs. “Lavender and honey?”

 

Steph raises a shoulder and lowers it, not bothering to open her eyes. “It’s soothing. Iðunn makes it, and I liked it best out of all of what she had.”

 

She vaguely hears him nod, before he says, “I’m about to pour water over you.”

 

“Thanks for the warning,” she replies, straightening as warm water cascades down her scalp and over her skin. He does it two more times, getting rid of all the soap, before offering her a towel.

 

She takes it, wrapping up her hair, before snagging a second one and wrapping it around her. There’s a knock at the door and she looks instinctively at Daimon, who rolls his eyes fondly (when the hell did _that_ happen?

 

...Probably after he washed her hair for her),

 

And goes to answer the door. She pats her body dry, half-listening to the muffled conversation, before the door closes and she looks up to see Daimon leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. “Who was that?”

 

“Messenger from ‘Lord’ Mordred,” wow, air quotes without actual air quotes. Daimon withdraws a scroll from his back pocket (how does he have any room to store things in his pockets? His leather pants are _that tight_ ), and clears his throat dramatically. “ ‘To the Lady Stephanie from Lord Mordred, greetings. It is my fondest wish that you would grace me with the honor of being my guest and partner for tomorrow night’s festivities. Yours sincerely, Lord Mordred, heir to Avalon and Camelot, etc. etc.’” Daimon looks at her. “Wow, he’s not exactly leaving you alone, is he.”

 

Steph rolls her eyes, unwinding the towel turban that anyone with long hair knows so well, and catching the drips at the ends of her hair. “Good thing I asked you, huh?”

 

“Oh, if you’d like me to step aside,” he starts, but she shoves him lightly, before hanging up the white towel and walking into her room to grab her nightgown.

 

“ _Don’t_ even,” she warns, pulling off the towel and reaching for clean underwear.

 

He whistles at her, and she rolls her eyes again, pulling on her nightgown but grabbing leggings to pull on underneath it. Best. Invention. _Ever_. (After the battle corset, but she digresses).

 

“You wear leggings to bed?” Daimon asks with some surprise, watching her lean down to run salve down her legs appreciatively before she wraps them, covering them with the leggings on top of all that.

 

“If the zombie apocalypse happens while I’m asleep, I can run without wasting time on finding clothes,” Steph says flippantly.

 

Daimon nods, going to lay down her bed with a sigh. “This is a _nice_ bed. How do you get out of it in the mornings?”

 

“My maid,” Steph answers, pulling up her Official Report on the Proceedings of the War Between the Manchester Gods and the Otherworld (with footnotes about how creepy Mordred is). “Whose name I really don’t know. Probably Mary or something.”

 

“Isn’t that stereotyping?”

 

“Probably,” Steph says vaguely, finding the right vein to express her thoughts without giving clue to the raging confusion she feels about the Otherworld and this war in general.

 

Daimon’s quiet after that, but she finds she likes that he’s there, even if he’s asleep, or nearly there, while she’s working.

 

She could get used to this, and the thought startles her out of her writing. She looks at him, and then at the direction of Loki’s room. The idea of being properly domestic, with Loki and Leah and Daimon is...attractive.

 

She shakes her head. She has to get Cass back first before she can make any promises on that front.

 

But it rattles her, so she tries to regain her train of thought and put it out of her mind.

 

‘Hardcore denial,’ Inner Kara chides. Wow, she didn’t even know she _had_ an Inner Kara. ‘Besides, he’s cute.’

 

‘Cute isn’t everything. He’s an incubus.’

 

Inner Kara snorts. ‘Right, and people lie about not sleeping with John Constantine. What’s the problem?’

 

‘I’m not in love with him.’

 

‘So?’

 

‘So why do I have fantasies of domestic life with him?’

 

Inner Kara bounces. ‘Ooh, ooh, I know this one.’ Steph waits, smiling slightly as she deletes a couple of words on her document and corrects them. ‘Because you’re lonely,’ Inner Kara says with the tone that she has solved the mysteries of the universe. ‘And he’s the first person who’s really _understood_ you to some extent. Loki and Leah see you as a combo big sister and mom figure, and the All-Mother and Amora see you as a tool. Daimon sees you as a person, and you need that. Besides, he could do domestic.’

 

Steph rolls her eyes. ‘I really doubt that.’

 

Inner Kara ‘tsks.’ ‘Oh please. Girl, he is just _waiting_ for you to ask.’

 

‘He wouldn’t stay,’ Steph finally says, saving her document and stretching.

 

‘Like you would, once you get Cass back?’ Inner Kara shakes her head. ‘Pot and kettle, Steph.’

 

Steph lets her shoulders slump. ‘I’m going to bed.’

 

‘With him?’ Inner Kara says excitedly. ‘Or just to sleep?’

 

‘Sleep,’ Steph says firmly. ‘Long day.’

 

‘Enjoy him tomorrow!’ Inner Kara says, fluttering off back into her subconscious.

 

Whatever.

 

\--

 

Loki wakes up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water, and through the open doorway to Stephanie’s room, he sees her tucked up against Hellstrom.

 

Well. If Hellstrom insists on bedding Stephanie at every available opportunity, he should probably be Daimon. Loki’s mouth twists as he opens the tap to fill up the small cup. He still doesn’t like him.

 

Stephanie whimpers, and Loki freezes, hoping he hasn’t interrupted...them, but since Hell—Daimon isn’t moving, he thinks, Stephanie is asleep. The thought solidifies into knowledge when Stephanie whimpers again, rustling in the sheets and Daimon doesn’t move.

 

Loki chugs his water and walks carefully into Stephanie’s room. He kneels over her, and her face is wracked with anguish and pain. Given her history, she could be reliving anything. Bracing himself, he places a hand on her shoulder. “Stephanie.”

 

She lunges upwards, grabbing a knife from someplace he’d dearly like not to think about, holding it to his throat. She blinks a few times before recognizing him, and her face flushes when she realizes she’s holding a knife to her charge’s throat, and she places it back from whence it came. “Sorry,” her voice comes out in a rasp. “Bat-paranoia. It’s a thing.”

 

“I’m fine,” he reassures her, stepping back as she sits up, leaving Daimon in the warmth of the sheets. She slips on a pair of slippers and her robe, glancing at him. “I need some air. Want to come?”

 

He nods, finding slippers of his own and trailing after her, not bothering to look back at Daimon, who is clearly still asleep. They’re silent as they pass through the halls, their slippers making a shushing sound on the marble flooring, and Stephanie leads them up to the wall. The air is still tinged with the smell of smoke, but it is clean and cold, and Loki shivers as Stephanie leans into a crenel.

 

“What was wrong?” he questions, leaning into his own crenel, seeing distant fires that signifies war.

 

“Nightmare. A new one, actually,” Stephanie shudders delicately. “It’s like someone reached into my subconscious and ripped. Hate, so much.”

 

“What happened?”

 

Stephanie actually hesitates, before deciding to go along with the question. “I dreamed that you and Cass were at the hands of Black Mask, not me, and Daimon and I were trying to rescue you, but Tanarus and some big hulking red guy were keeping us from you. In the meantime, I could hear the two of you screaming and it was making me crazy that I couldn’t help.”

 

“Where was Leah?”

 

“I have no idea,” Stephanie admits, tucking her legs up into her crenel and staring out across the land. “She just wasn’t there, for some reason. I was threatening everyone and their mother, just to try to get to the two of you, and it wasn’t working.”

 

“What do you think it means?”

 

“What my nightmares usually mean,” Stephanie says wryly. “A fear of helplessness. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a fan of the feeling.”

 

“You are never truly helpless,” he declares. “You think your way out of situations that would stymie others.”

 

“Thanks for that, but the subconscious isn’t exactly rational.”

 

“That’s true,” he concedes. He waits a moment, before, “You and Hellstrom?”

 

“Is that weird for you?”

 

“A little,” he admits, “but if he makes you happy, you should be happy.”

 

“Everyone keeps saying that,” she mutters. “Was I so _un_ happy that everyone notices when I’m happy?”

 

“I believe it to be the rule of thumb when it comes to giving approval to romantic relationships that we wish you happiness in that endeavor,” he says archly. More quietly, he adds, “Besides, you were not necessarily unhappy, but you were not exactly happy either. You...glow, a little, when he is around you. I imagine it would be similar to being around Cassandra, only perhaps more concentrated.”

 

Stephanie stiffens a little, before relaxing. “Maybe. I miss her. It’s weird.’

 

“Is it, to miss someone you are close to?” He leans over to meet her gaze. “I miss Thor, though Thor rarely understands me.”

 

Stephanie reaches out a hand to ruffle his hair. “He tries, kid,” she says affectionately, “and that counts for a _lot_.”

 

He nods.

 

Stephanie stretches. “Back to bed, I think,” she says to herself. “Enough English fresh air—complete with wind chill.”

 

He eyes her, and she’s shivering rather violently, and he follows her back to their rooms. Before he enters his room, she kisses his forehead gently. “Good night, Loki, sweet dreams.”

 

“Sweet dreams,” he repeats, and tries not to feel like the shadows in Stephanie’s room are sentient.

 

\--

 

Steph wakes up slowly in the morning. The light from outside is starting to pour into her room, and she can feel Daimon behind her, their feet tangled together in the sheets. She smiles and stretches lightly.

 

“Stop moving,” Daimon mumbles.

 

She rolls her eyes, but ceases. Daimon is apparently a cuddler, a trait in full display as he places his chin over her shoulder and tucks her into the curve of his body.

 

“Daimon,” she says patiently.

 

“What?”

 

“I need to pee.”

 

Daimon sighs, a warm gust of breath over her shoulder. “Are you serious?”

 

She presses her lips together, finally lifting Daimon’s arm from her hip. “Yes. I’ll be back.”

 

“Don’t disturb the blankets,” he complains, and she slides out from underneath them. He then claims her pillow as she vanishes into the privy.

 

After having her moment, she stops to brush her teeth and splash water over her face. She feels fully awake, but she has no desire to get actual work done.

 

Even though she feels fully awake, she doesn’t feel _rested_. Even after that midnight convo with Loki after waking up from nightmares, she didn’t get full sleep for a while. Her skin feels alternately itchy and achy, phantom pains from whatever she dreamed that she can’t remember. Her arms ache, and she looks at them to see faint red scratches. Great, so at some point during the night she clawed at herself.

 

Still. Daimon helps. He’s kind of an anchor.

 

It’s not _Daimon_ that’s the anchor, she rambles to herself as she enters her room again, smiling at the picture of Daimon curled around a pillow possessively. It’s just...his presence, meaning that she’s not alone. It’s not him-him.

 

“Stop thinking and come back to bed,” he grumps at her.

 

“You don’t command me,” she points out playfully, tugging on her braid. “What if I have things to do today?”

 

Daimon props up his head on his hand, and looks her over. “ _Do_ you have things to do today?”

 

“Just the ball tonight.”

 

He rolls his eyes very obviously. “Then come back to bed.”

 

“Since you asked so nicely,” she quips, sliding back under the covers. Daimon lets her have her pillow, and she snuggles into it, looking up at him. He still hasn’t dropped his hand, and he looks her over, frowning slightly. Before he can ask to her mental state, she leans up and kisses him, sucking on his lower lip before laying back down. “Good morning.”

 

He’s amused now—he probably knows what she’s trying to do. He kisses her back, twining his fingers through her loose braid (now made...loose-er), opening his mouth to swipe the tip of his tongue over her lips. She opens them instinctively, and he follows through, coaxing her into their usual fight for dominance over the kiss, though since it’s godawful early, it’s much more subdued than normal.

 

Finally, she pulls him back with a light tug of his hair, because breathing is important, children. “For someone who seems determined to get as much sleep as possible, you are impossibly good at this,” she tells him.

 

He shrugs, resting his forehead on hers. “It’s all about motivation.”

 

She shakes her slightly, feeling her heart beat back to normal. “I don’t think the kids are up yet.”

 

“Your point being?”

 

“I don’t exactly want them to walk in on us. Or do you want to be caught by Loki?” she teases, running her toes down his calf. “You clearly like to watch, so...”

 

“Oh god just _stop_ ,” he pleads. His gaze heats (no seriously, there are flames in his eyes again) as she flutters her toes over his skin. “You’re going to get in trouble, little girl.”

 

“I am _hardly_ a little girl--,” she starts, before he kisses her again, ravaging her mouth in what is clearly a power display. She lets him, because while yes, he’s amazingly hot (in every meaning of the word), he’s never gone full-incubus on her before, in bed, at least.

 

It’s...nice, and she feels her toes curl as he sucks on her tongue.

 

He moves so that he’s laying on her, and her legs instinctively part so that he’s between them. The leggings drag slightly, and that’s when she realizes he is not, in fact, wearing anything other than boxer-briefs.

 

Well, of course he sleeps in _something,_ Steph. A zombie apocalypse is probably more real for him than it is for you.

 

His mouth starts to trail from her mouth to her jaw to her neck (where he finds the hickey he left and laves over it approvingly, _possessive son of a bitch_ ), and he pauses to help her push up the nightgown so he can blow on her nipple, causing her to jump. “Wasn’t exactly joking about Loki walking in unannounced,” she gasps when he holds her arms down and _sucks_ on her breast.

 

He eyes her, rolling the peak between his teeth, cataloguing her responses. He finally lets it go with a wet popping sound (it is _obscene_ , and she rolls her hips in a quick movement, wanting some kind of relief soon), sitting upright. “It’s seven in the morning. What time do they usually get up?” he asks tersely, and she can see the reason why.

 

“Maybe nine?” she offers. “Depends on the day. Since yesterday was so eventful, they might sleep in.”

 

Daimon gets out of bed and firmly closes the door. “Do they have their own way of getting out of this suite?”

 

“No, the only door is mine,” Steph nods towards the current door.

 

“That’s ridiculous.”

 

“Most ambassadors don’t come with children,” she points out, sitting up and pulling her nightgown down. “I think the original intent of that room was a study.”

 

Daimon pinches the bridge of his nose, and she _feels his pain_. Is this what parents go through, wanting sexy times but cockblocked by their offspring? Steph is _not a fan_.

 

Whatever they would have done, (and she has no clue), is abruptly decided for them by Loki and Leah opening the door and peeking out. Thanks to the angle, they see Steph first, and Daimon has time to tug on a robe. “Stephanie?” Loki calls softly.

 

“Yeah kid?” she crosses one leg over the other, thanking whoever designed her nightgowns that they’re a loose fit. Particularly in the torso.

 

“We’re going to meet with the Manchester gods,” Loki tells her, stepping delicately into the room at large. “I don’t know exactly what is going to happen, but if there’s something that _can_ be done, we’re going to do it.”

 

Steph nods. “Right on, kid. Good luck.”

 

Loki and Leah see Daimon, who is for all intents and purposes immersed in a book on the vanity stool. His robe hides just about everything, so for all they know, he’s wearing his clothes under there.

 

The two kids eye him before skedaddling with intent. Steph hides her giggles, because that wide-eyed look of horror? She knows it _really_ well.

 

Once they’re gone, Daimon puts down the book. His mouth quirks as she walks over to him, sitting down on his lap, moving her hair aside as she leans down to kiss him. His hands wrap around her, holding her there as he spreads his legs apart for balance. He lets her dictate this kiss, and he moans when she rolls her hips against his.

 

“It occurs to me you’re wearing clothes,” he tells her when she takes a moment to breathe.

 

“You are too,” she points out. She hooks a thumb in his boxer-briefs waistband and flicks it against his skin. He growls at her, but she giggles in response.

 

She stands up carefully, looking down at him. In a challenge, she strips off her nightgown in one movement, before following up with her leggings and underwear. His eyes dilate as she puts her hands on her hips, jerking her head at him for him to follow her lead. She turns on her heel to go sit on the bed, waiting for him to act.

 

He follows her there, and he stops in front of her. “I don’t suppose you could help me out?”

 

“Isn’t that just like a man,” she sighs, grabbing his waistband and tugging downwards. “Always demanding a woman be his helpmeet.”

 

He surges against her once he can step out of _his_ underwear, pinning her to the bed. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” he rumbles.

 

“Ooh, nice. Does that startle small children too?”

 

“Do you ever shut up?” he bemoans, sitting back for a moment.

 

“I can happily give it to you as a challenge,” she tells him.

 

Yeah, his eyes are flaming again, and he moves down the bed, jerking her into place, and she opens her mouth to complain, but then he ducks down, kissing her pussy. Her complaint turns into a moan the moment he licks a line across her clit, “He— _oh_.”

 

She feels him chuckle, tapping the tip of his tongue against her clit before licking down to her vulva, slowly thrusting his tongue into her. Her back arches and her fingers flex in the sheets, clutching them as he lifts up her hips for a better angle to eat her out.

 

Dear _god_ , how did he get so good with his tongue?

 

She doesn’t realize she’s said this out loud when he pulls away, his mouth shiny from her cunt, and he answers, “Practice,” before diving back in.

 

Steph’s legs lift to cradle his head between her thighs and her hands move from the sheets to his hair as he continues to tongue-fuck her, until she can _feel_ her orgasm cresting, and she goes, “oh holy _god_ ,” before it slams into her and there are definitely full-body shudders.

 

Daimon rides it out, continuing to lave at her clit and thrust his tongue into her until her body collapses, and she stares at the top of the bed as he crawls up, kissing her. She can taste herself on him, but it’s more sensual than gross, and the number of guys she’s slept with who has eaten her out she can count on one hand.

 

Which, okay, makes her sound like a huge slut, but whatever.

 

“You know how some people have horrible orgasm faces?” he asks her. She cracks an eyelid at him, suddenly terrified.

 

“Oh god.”

 

He nuzzles her neck. “That’s _not_ you.”

 

She relaxes, closing her eyes again. “Oh good.”

 

At the angle he’s currently laying on her, she can feel him, hot and hard, against her thigh. She sits up, eyeing him. Daimon looks at her as she glances at him, before focusing on his dick. She licks her hand from palm to fingertips, before reaching down and pumping him twice, running her thumb over his slit, damp with precum. She circles her thumb around the head of his dick—she hears his small gasp—before removing her hand and licking her thumb.

 

“If you keep that up, I’ll have certain expectations,” he rasps.

 

She raises her brows at him. “Find a condom, and I might fulfill them.”

 

Daimon moves faster than _Batman_ when motivated. In a flash (flash. Haha. Puns are a tried-and-true Robin tradition), he’s back on the bed, holding a condom package. He rips it open, but she whisks it out of his hand before he can slide it on. He opens his mouth to protest, but she watches brain cells die when she puts it on him with her mouth. He leans back against the headboard of the bed, carefully holding the sheets instead of her hair (something she appreciates, actually), before she swallows him down.

 

Training until you drop definitely helps with a gag reflex, believe it or not. You can’t vomit over _every_ mook that slams a punch into your stomach, even if it’s well-deserved and what else should they expect?

 

She hears his broken groan and arousal flares, because _she’s_ the one doing this to him, and she backs off enough to swirl her tongue around the head of his cock. He must hate latex, because these are clearly polyurethane condoms, and she is _totally_ not complaining.

 

His hips make an aborted movement, and wow, she thinks she could almost love him, because the guys she has gone down on clearly thought that meant a free pass for facefucking, and no, actually. Some people get off on that— _she_ is not one of them.

 

She uses her hands to pump the shaft while she very carefully runs the tips of her teeth on the head. Given that he swears very creatively and his dick jumps when she does it, she’s pretty sure his biting kink extends _everywhere_ , and that frees her up to run her teeth on his shaft, before closing her lips and _sucking_ , and he shouts. When she lets him go, he squeezes his dick at the base, hissing.

 

“Don’t want this to end so quickly?” she tosses to him.

 

His grin is large and full of teeth. “Nope.” That smile promises things.

 

Before he can act on them, she springs onto him, and now it’s _his_ turn to be pinned to the bed. He looks startled, like, what, this blonde who is easily four to six inches shorter than me is able to pin me?

 

Yeah, dude.

 

“I want to be on top,” she informs him.

 

When his eyes dilate (to the point she's actually kinda worried), she knows his kinks cold.

 

\--

 

Finding Manchester had not been hard, but then, they were not attempting to hide from _Loki_ , the one who had warned them about coming attempts to blow up their places of power, that which anchored them.

 

Their leader was waiting for him as the magical train pulled up to the station, a grey man (almost as if Tumblr’s Anonymous face had been given a body and a suit) with a cane waiting for them. “Welcome, Master Loki of Asgardia, Miss Leah of Hel,” the man smiles. “For your warning, you have our thanks. I am Master Wilson.” He gestures with his cane that they should join him, and he continues as they do so, “I’d prefer ‘Mister’ but it seems the gods have forced a position of power onto me. I am no man’s master. That’s very much the point.”

 

Loki thinks, uncharitably, that the gods don’t have any idea that _this_ man is the leader of the Manchester gods. Therefore, they have not forced him into _anything_.

 

Wilson stops and turns to them, the craggy lines of his face deepening in the shadow that _drenches_ Manchester, despite all of the advances here. “So, young Master Loki, why did you warn us? Asgardia officially supports the Otherworld. There are numerous treaties about it.” He clears his throat for a moment, then adding, “Even now, Asgardia sent over an ambassador to the Otherworld.”

 

Leah does not look at Loki, or she at him, but it is Ikol who says what they’re thinking. “How many spies do you have among the Otherworld?”

 

Wilson is intent and not answering Ikol, so Loki goes to answer. “Oh, mischief purposes. I’m famous about it, and I’m also here to learn, about gods and power and the like. For example—“

 

Leah cuts him off. “What Loki means to say, _what in the Nine Realms are you_?”

 

Loki loves her. They are two sides of the same coin.

 

“Consider me a druid,” Wilson invites, walking forward. Loki and Leah trot to keep up. “Only my power doesn’t come from oak and ash, but instead steam, steel, and holy concrete.” He splays his hands, indicating the world around them. “I was born here not long ago in _our_ time.”

 

“Here?” Leah inquires.

 

“Here, as in right here,” Wilson slams down the point of his cane into the ground and the world explodes into light, but unlike the candles and fires that light Asgardia, this light is not comforting, and Loki does not know why. “I was a druid of cities in a land with none, and that didn’t strike me as _right_.”

 

Wilson is not paying attention to them, too focused on showing them the flashes of memory he has during this period, so Leah slides next to Loki and whispers, “He must be older than he says—Great Britain has had cities since the Romans invaded.”

 

“Or perhaps he’s delusional,” Ikol says crisply. “Delusions of grandeur, perhaps.”

 

Wilson, who has clearly heard nothing that they have said, is still talking. “I call my belief system ‘urban pantheism,’ but that’s me being pretentious.” He laughs. "‘Pretentious.’ A lovely word. A verbal tick of the dull and slovenly, used to lash at ideas above our station. Personally, I have no time for those who wish to stay at their station. Except, perhaps, a train station, but that’s a minor misery that is payment for progress.”

 

Unless you’ve been stuck there for a while, Loki thinks. Well. That’s a fairly petty thing to get annoyed at.

 

“And imprisoning the Red King?” Leah asks pointedly.

 

“Oh, so _disapproving_ ,” Wilson shrugs. “Why should he _not_ be imprisoned, when all he does is destroy?” He throws open the gates, and Loki and Leah are treated to the sight of various Fae and trolls, only these Fae have something wrong. They seem to be the essence of smog and such, when the Fae in Camelot and Avalon seem to be the essence of clean environmental living. Loki shivers, and Leah presses a little closer to him. “Because that’s ‘the way things are?’” Wilson does finger quotes. Loki is a little bemused. “Oh please. I’d jail the very devil if I could.”

 

Stephanie would likely say something about rates of recidivism, but since she’s not here, Loki keeps silent, allowing Wilson to say his piece. He deserves a hearing.

 

“Besides, his fury powers our cities,” Wilson is smug with this knowledge, and Loki allows him this. “That’s reparations for all the harm he’s caused for the poor. Do you know the life expectancy for trolls? How many of them died in his wars? Furthermore, do you know the life expectancy for troll _children_ in the pits? _If_ they survive, they just grow up to become monsters.”

 

“That does not condone brainwashing,” Leah insists, glaring at a troll that is too close to her.  The troll backs off with a whimper.

 

“I am not the Pied Piper,” Wilson points out as they start to meander their way towards the large building that looks a bit like Parliament. “People come to us of their own free will. And the Otherworld only cares about the fact that there are less people to serve them dinner.”

 

Except the ones who have lost or are losing children and parents to this conflict, Loki thinks. That had rattled Stephanie, badly. While she dislikes the Otherworld for its decadence, she does not hold Manchester in higher esteem.

 

This is all political, Loki realizes with a jolt. Those in power—and for all that Wilson pretended otherwise, he _likes_ power—can say what they will, about anything they like, but there are consequences. If Wilson cared about the poor, he would not be killing the poor who choose to stay with the Otherworld.

 

But on the other side of that same coin, the Otherworld would not hesitate to exterminate Manchester and all it stands for, given the opportunity. They would justify it under the banner of that they cannot appear vulnerable.

  

Loki could hate this, but he _likes_ this game, as long as lives aren’t at stake, rising or falling on his actions.

 

“—and up in the Camelot, the poor would be lucky to be choking down bloody red venison,” Wilson is saying. “And the elves—the _Fair Folk_! Ha! What a joke. A perpetual monarchy without any sort of democratic leash?” They arrive at the doors of Parliament, and Wilson pushes them open, allowing them to enter. “The only reason why it has been this way, according to them, is because it has _always_ been this way. We ask, how _else_ could it be?”

 

Fair point. Loki takes out his StarkPhone; Stephanie has sent him a message.

 

_U kids OK? Srry bout this morning._

He types out his answer ( _‘Fine, in Manchester. Talk later.’)_ He keeps his phone out, taking a few pictures to show Stephanie later as Wilson keeps on going. He clearly planned out his speech ahead of time.

 

They’re desperate, he realizes as Wilson says, “They argue that Britain is fundamentally rural. We say that Britain is fundamentally urban. If the Otherworld is Britain’s subconscious, then what exactly is it? A few gods and goddesses, whose mythology matches many other cultures, only with different names and slightly different origins? But the whole concept of urbanism and modernity _began_ here. Manchester was the first ‘city of the future,’ the beginner of progress that led to that StarkPhone you’re so enamored with. This is what this land fears, and some dear friends of mine said once that there is no future in England’s dreaming. We are the future.”

 

“But...do you not wish to annihilate them?” Leah inquires as they begin the climb up the stairs to the top office.

 

Wilson laughs. “Absolutely not. We’re fighting because we have no choice, and believe me, Miss Leah, if we win, we will bring about peace as quickly as we are able. Our existence—our _dual_ existence—threatens the safety of the realm, and if the realm dies, so do we.”

 

Like what happened in Mesopotamia, though that was outside interference.

 

But they are desperate, to attempt to gain the assistance of Loki. That is what this entire tour was about, the prolonged speech, showcasing how all of the races that are so despised in the Otherworld—the Unseelie, the trolls—can live together here in peace.

 

Wilson opens the door to his office, and inside, they see a woman with a typewriter at a secretarial desk. She flicks her eyes over them, clearly unimpressed, before standing and straightening her suit (that Loki recognizes as circa late 1800s, early 1900s). “Sir.”

 

“Master Loki, Miss Leah, this is my aide, Martha Granholm. Martha, these are unofficial Asgardian representatives.”

 

“Pleasure,” Martha says dryly. “Sir, we’ve just gotten the list of casualties from last night’s skirmish.”

 

Wilson sighs. “Put it on my desk. I’ll need to notify their families.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

Wilson herds them into his office, and it’s very modern and sleek, but not leaning towards ostentation. Loki relaxes fractionally. Wilson seats himself behind his desk.

 

“To recap, what exactly do you want?” Loki inquires.

 

Wilson leans back in his leather chair. “The Otherworld can keep their leafy glens, and Arthur can keep his throne, but no power. Britain is not a republic, so we should not be either. Instead, we would have a constitutional monarchy, just as the realm does. So goes the realm, so should we all,” Wilson’s smile is minute, but there. “The Captain Britain Corps patrol the Multiverse. We’re not going to interfere with that. But Britain’s subconscious should reflect Britain itself, and the Otherworld might finally have a future.”

 

Loki parses this. “So you wish the people to be in power, while taking away Arthur’s absolute authority?” That does not sound terrible.

 

“Yes,” Wilson says, leaning forward and steepling his fingers. “We should change. Change is good, and necessary. I’d’ve thought that some gods felt the same way, perhaps counted you in their number.” Wilson eyes the two of them. “Are you here to negotiate, Master Loki?”

 

Loki eyes Leah, and her gaze is hard, but he knows what she’s saying. _Promise nothing, discuss everything_. Very well.

 

“What would happen to Asgardia’s ambassador, should you win while she is present?”

 

Wilson’s smile is sardonic. “Ah yes, Ambassador Brown, a woman so concerned with her position in good standing that she only acts unprofessionally behind closed doors, unless it is to save your lives. Are you here to negotiate her safety? Rest assured that she will go unharmed—diplomatic immunity is not a modern idea, but one we certainly cling to. We cannot fight Asgardia _and_ the Otherworld. _If_ we win, Master Loki, her position puts her in place to act as arbiter between the Otherworld and us, as a...witness.”

 

“Ambassador Brown’s behavior behind closed doors, as you so put it, has absolutely nothing to do with her position as ambassador,” Leah says coldly. “She has not acted in your interest, but neither has she acted in the interest of the Otherworld. Asgardia is staying neutral, and your attempts to paint certain actions she has taken as an example of her moral character is out of line.”

 

Wilson raises his hands. “Peace, I meant no disrespect.”

 

“Then you would have hardly mentioned her ‘unprofessional’ behavior,” Leah’s anger is cold, and settles against Loki’s skin. Ikol caws in agreement, rustling his feathers from his position on Loki’s shoulders.

 

“I accept my comment was out of line, and I apologize,” Wilson says. It is not entirely sincere, and Loki is confused as to why the man would go so far as to include it—it would not endear Loki to Wilson’s cause, to insult Stephanie.

 

The man may not have uttered the word, but he certainly meant to call her a whore.

 

Unless the barb was intended to show Loki and Leah the extent of what intelligence he has from the Otherworld, and perhaps to gauge their reaction. The comment was mildly worded, and if they had said nothing, he would have thought they thought the same of Stephanie. But since they _did_ object, he knows that they care for, and will protect, Stephanie to the best of their ability.

 

Wilson exposed a weakness, but so did they.

 

“Ambassador Brown could certainly act as arbiter,” Loki says slowly. “But what about the safety of others in the Otherworld? Nimue? Guinevere and her ladies?” _The civilians_ , he thinks but does not say.

 

Wilson shrugs. “The discussion of economics and the ‘nobility,’” the twist in his words turn ‘nobility’ into an insult, “is something that we would certainly discuss at length, but they would be safe enough. We do not harm women or children.”

 

“But you have,” Leah argues.

 

“That is war. Peacetime is a wholly different matter.”

 

“We will certainly discuss this with Ambassador Brown,” Loki bows slightly from his seat. “Thank you very much for your time.”

 

Wilson stands up and so do they, and he opens his office door. “Stay as long as you like, and please tell Ambassador Brown and Asgardia of our good character,” he bids them as they exit. Martha Granholm doesn’t acknowledge them as they leave, her fingers flying over the typewriter.

 

They wander through the hall before Leah grabs his arm. “We should free the Red King _now,_ while they’ve given us an open invitation to explore,” she hisses to him.

 

He shakes her off.  “No. No, no, _no_.” He stares out the windows, the light of the day (it must be around midday or later) distended by the fires of the factories below. “I can’t—but I can,” he eyes Ikol, who says nothing, and just looks at him placidly.

 

“Loki,” Leah says uncertainly.

 

He turns to her, leaning on the windowsill. “Leah, they’ve done unconscionable acts. But so has the Otherworld, and they make fair points. Wilson’s slight to Stephanie aside, what he wants is not unreasonable, and if given the opportunity, you _know_ what the Otherworld would do to Wilson and his army.”

 

“They would slaughter it,” Leah says softly.

 

“And if Wilson is correct in that his side represents the industry and modernity that helped make Britain great, then if the Otherworld slaughters them, they slaughter that legacy.”

 

“What if they cannot coexist?” Leah argues, but he can see that she is processing what he is saying, merely offering counterarguments. “What if after peace is officially declared, there is still conflict?”

 

“Once peace is officially declared, and Asgardia acts as arbiter between the two parties, what then occurs after Asgardia has left is not our concern,” Loki points out. “It is up to them to discover how to coexist. Asgardia cannot hold their hands so they can do that. The United States discovered how to coexist, through bloody means as it may have been.”

 

“The United States also has continuing problems that directly stem to issues right after it was founded,” Leah counters. “Not, perhaps, the _best_ example.”

 

“Either way, Leah, the poor should be treated better. There should be equality. Do you deny this?”

 

“Death makes everyone equal,” Leah finally answers, “but yes, I concur.”

 

Loki closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. “Then we should do as we must.”

 

They walk back to Wilson’s office, passing back Granholm and opening the door to his office. He jumps, startled, but Loki talks over it. “Master Wilson, after some conferencing, we have come to a conclusion, but first, I need your solemn word that absolutely no harm will come to Ambassador Brown or King Arthur’s court.”

 

“You have it,” Wilson agrees. He looks excited, and it’s justified by Loki’s next statement.

 

“We will help you. Tonight, they are hosting an event to keep up morale in Avalon, and all of the important people of Avalon and Camelot will be there. This is the perfect time to strike, if you can get your people in place.”

 

“They already are,” Wilson says absently, “what did you have in mind?”

 

Loki glances at Leah. “We have some ideas.”

 

\--

 

Steph opens her email absently. Daimon’s asleep again (and she might well join him. Her ladyparts are all...tingly), but this report does need work. She has the usual garbage, (Hi, I’m Crystal. Do you like girls? _Oh please_ ), but there’s an email with an attached file from t.e.stark@si.net. She opens it, curious.

 

“To Stephanie Brown, Ambassador of Asgardia,

 

Thought these may come in handy—they’re the various treaties that Asgardia has with the US and other entities. The All-Mother was reminded of them when I helped make all of their treaties part of an electronic library. Don’t know if you’ll need them, but something to keep in mind.

 

Tony Stark”

 

Huh. She clicks on the attached files and they start downloading. Once they’re done, she opens them and starts to scan the contents—yeah, okay, the US one is interesting but not for right now—and gets to one with the Otherworld being a signatory.

 

She skims it, not trying to figure out the legalese, but blah blah blah, they are officially neutral to each other in the event of a conflict limited to their realms, blah blah— _what_?

 

Steph stops and reads back over that last. Conflict limited to their realms...like a civil war? Okay, that’s understandable, but didn’t the Otherworld decline to intervene during whole Serpent thing? Citing this particular clause?

 

Except that the Serpent wasn’t just plaguing Asgardia. He was plaguing _everywhere._

 

Steph swears out loud.

 

“What’s going on?” Daimon asks sleepily.

 

“Stuff,” Steph says tight, sending off a quick email to Stark, asking if the All-Mother is available for a video chat. “The Otherworld’s guilty as hell.”

 

Holy hell, the Otherworld let that whole thing happen. Not that they could have prevented it, but they could have dealt with the damage and— _ugh_. Do they know how many people died? How many people went missing and still haven’t been found?

 

And how many of those dead/missing people were _children_?

 

A window pops up with the universal L O A D I N G sign, and Steph places a finger to her lips to Daimon, who nods and rolls over, falling back asleep.

 

The All-Mother blooms into being on her screen, a little fuzzy from the magic and distance. “Stephanie? What is wrong?” Freyja’s frowning.

 

“So that clause in the treaty with the Otherworld, about,” Steph squints at it, “nonintervention?”

 

“Yes...” Freyja says slowly.

 

“It only says that it is in place when a conflict is internal.”

 

“What is your point, Stephanie?”

 

“They declined to assist with the Serpent due to this clause,” Steph says.

 

Freyja looks at Iðunn and Gaea. “They did.”

 

“But that was not an internal conflict.”

 

“It was not,” Gaea agrees, “but you see, since the source came from us, it was legally shaky enough that they could decline without us having the grounds to sue them.”

 

“But that makes no sense,” Steph argues. “The Serpent was going to _destroy the world_. How can they sit by when that occurs?”

 

“Fear of annihilation,” Gaea explains. “No one wants what happened to Mesopotamia to happen to them. When a state goes extinct, Stephanie, so do the gods. A sovereignty change, a break-up of territory—that which embodied the land is gone, and new entities are put in place. If the Otherworld sat out of the conflict, they ran the risk of being destroyed, but if they took part in the fight against the Serpent, they ran a much closer risk. By choosing not to act, they chose to hope that others would prevail.”

 

“Odin All-Father may have been primarily motivated by fear of losing Thor,” Freyja adds, “but that fear of annihilation certain did not help. Asgardia is a little different than others, because we exist independently of that which gave birth to us. The only reason why Asgardia could fall is if one of our own betrayed us. That’s why the Serpent was a threat to us, and why the siege of Asgardia by Norman Osborn was a threat—Loki helped him. It was not until Loki turned against him that we had a chance.”

 

“The Otherworld realizes that they are very much at the risk of becoming extinct due to the actions of the Manchester gods, and they do not wish to die,” Iðunn says quietly.

 

“So they were willing to let you die, but the moment it looks like they might, they come running to you for help?” Steph isn’t ready to calm down yet.

 

Iðunn’s smile is easy to see, even with the pixelated quality of the viewscreen. “You note we are the only ones who sent over an ambassador.”

 

“What do you want me to do with this information?” Steph says.

 

“Hold onto it. It’s not immediately needed, but it may be. Keep this in mind as Arthur and his court try to sway you to their side,” Freyja warns. “We are willing to do all sorts of things to hope we survive.”

 

“Good night!” Iðunn bids as the viewscreen closes.

 

Steph rests her head on the desk of the vanity. “I hate my life,” she bemoans.

 

\--

 

When Loki and Leah make it back to Avalon, plans in place (part of Loki wishes that he and Leah could be the ones to blow up the monument, he knows where they can find Guy Fawkes masks, but he needs to be here), Stephanie is in the process of getting ready, immersed in the bathroom to ‘put on her face,’ and Daimon’s somehow found a shirt, and he is cleaning his boots.

 

Since Stephanie is preoccupied, it gives them their opportunity to talk to Daimon.

 

“So, when am I getting paid?” Daimon asks, frowning at a bit of sludge on his shoes, like he can’t remember where it came from.

 

The thought is slightly frightening.

 

“Soon,” Loki promises. “Actually,” he hesitates, looking at Leah.

 

Leah rolls her eyes at him and takes up the narrative. “We met with them,” she says in a harsh whisper (Stephanie _cannot_ know, not if Asgardia is to be seen as neutral in these affairs), “and we were swayed, but long story short, Daimon, they’ll be mounting a full attack tonight, and we have reason to believe it will succeed.”

 

“What do you want from me?” Daimon’s eyes are flinty.

 

“Keep Stephanie safe,” Loki says in a rush. “Leah and I will be returning to Manchester within the hour, to further the narrative that we were Otherworld spies later on, leaving Stephanie without allies here. Things happen in chaos. Things that Asgardia would be duty-bound to respond to, and we cannot afford that at this juncture.”

 

“Keep her safe?” Daimon repeats, looking at the closed door of the bathroom and then back at them. “I can do that. Is there something I should watch for?”

 

Loki grimaces. “I’m pretty sure you’ll know it when you see it.”

 

The door opens, and Stephanie steps through, dramatic in just a corset and billowed underskirt. From the looks of her make-up (silver eyeliner, smoky eyeshadow that is slightly smudged, light blush, and red lipstick), she’s intending to go as a vamp.

 

“Oh please,” she says when they stare. “I’m not even fully dressed yet.”

 

“We did well,” Leah says quickly, “though we must return to Manchester for some deeper reconnaissance.”

 

“Do you need anything?” Stephanie asks, rooting through her jewelry box for silver studs and an aged sterling silver chain paired with tanzanite. From that, Loki deduces she’s wearing blue, and feels proud of himself.

 

“We do not,” Leah answers, “but thank you.”

 

“Stay safe,” Stephanie says sternly.

 

“Yes ma’am,” Loki teases.

 

Daimon isn’t saying anything, and when Loki glances at him, he sees that Daimon is focusing on his shoes. Daimon must feel his eyes, because he looks up and sighs. “I’m waiting for the dress.”

 

“I need to find the shoes,” Stephanie answers back, the blue silk of whatever she’s wearing hanging over the screen.

 

“Black works fine,” Daimon points out.

 

“Maybe, but I know I saw—ah-ha. Found ‘em,” she brandishes a pair of dyed blue heels that match her dress. “And I can even run in them,” she adds, oblivious to the shared looks between Leah, Loki, and Daimon. “That’s my rule for heels—I have to be able to run in them. Bat-paranoia is a beautiful thing.”

 

Ikol caws derisively and bates. “You may need that knowledge before the night is out.”

 

Stephanie disappears behind the screen. Loki shifts on his feet. An irrational part of himself, a very small, irrational part of himself wants to throw himself at her feet, and beg to stay inside tonight.

 

But Loki has things to do, and that small, irrational part of himself gets shoved down, like it always does. Daimon will protect her, and Stephanie can certainly defend herself. Push comes to shove, she’ll be out of the way so she doesn’t have to.

 

Though her fury will be mighty when she learns of the machinations done to protect her. She will think that they don’t trust her to protect herself.

 

But chaos has a way of undoing everything. Mistakes occur, and he has no doubt that when he and Manchester finish their work, there will chaos, and as able as Stephanie is, if she falls, she could be trampled. Or raped. Anyone can be overcome, and he will not have that happen to her, not if he can prevent it.

 

He may not like Daimon, but Daimon is a useful tool.

 

Enough Machiavellian tactics. He has Ikol for that.

 

Stephanie appears from behind the screen, and Loki gazes at her with approval. The silk of gown flutters from the breeze from the open window, making her look like a figure from a fairytale. The deep blue of the dress officially begins at her bosom and goes down, before it meets a thin silver braid of a belt, and then the skirt billows out. The shoulders of the dress are sheer and sleeveless. Her hair is loose, but he knows she has hairpins to put in.

 

Leah nods. “Beautiful.” Why isn’t her voice ever that warmly approving for _him_? He pouts, but he hides it.

 

Steph kneels down, holding carefully onto her skirts so that she doesn’t wrinkle them. “Good luck, the two of you. Can I have a hug?”

 

Leah goes in first, which does startle him, and startles Stephanie too, but Stephanie doesn’t hesitate in wrapping her arms around Leah. Once Leah has pulled back, Loki hugs Stephanie. She smells of lavender and honey, and it comforts him. She kisses his cheek and lets him go.

 

He looks back quickly as he and Leah exit the room, and Stephanie’s smile is heartbreaking and it isn’t fair that he has to go.

 

\--

 

Steph descends the staircase carefully, her arm in Daimon’s as they head towards the crowd of people waiting for them. Steph is smiling, but it feels plastered on.

 

“Relax, sweetheart,” Daimon mutters from the side of his mouth, face blank. “You look like you’ll break if someone grazes you.”

 

“I hate this,” Steph nods to the women as she passes. They make a clear line to the Queen, sitting on her throne with Mordred at her left hand, beneath her on the dais. “It’s so artificial.”

 

“It’s easier that way,” Daimon murmurs, letting go of Steph so she can curtsey to Guinevere while he bows.

 

“Your Majesty,” Steph says formally. “This is Daimon Hellstrom, a longtime friend and ally. He is here as my guest.”

 

Mordred is scowling at Daimon openly (oh brilliant, thank you very much Mordred), but Guinevere nods, smiling. “We bid you welcome, Lady Stephanie of Asgardia. What is ours is yours.”

 

...Okay then. That’s interesting.

 

When Guinevere dismisses them, Daimon bows out to go get drinks (what is _with_ mythological figures and alcohol, anyway?), while various nobles and officials who are not necessary to the war effort mob her. They clearly have no interest in what is going on beyond the walls of Avalon, too busy asking about Asgardia, and what it’s like to be a mortal in the company of giants.

 

As they ask their questions, she feels a little like Sansa, looking at the young girls who had never seen anyone die—pitying, and envying.

 

 _God_ she feels morbid.

 

Daimon manages to work his way through the crowds, and she sips at whatever he got for her (it tastes like lemon fizzy water. _Good_ ), smiling just in time to catch the Lady Elaine’s comment on the difficulty of experiencing mortality in such a place as Asgardia. Daimon wraps an arm around her waist when her hand spasms on the stem of the glass, excusing her from the mob.

 

“Why do they have to be so rude?” she gripes to him as he sweeps her away, out onto the terrace for some fresh air. He eyes his watch.

 

“5 minutes. Must be a record.”

 

She goes to stand by the stone railing that overlooks the apple orchards and the Lady’s garden. “I hate this,” she says to herself, rubbing her hands on her arms. The evening’s cold. “All of this—it’s ridiculous. Asgardia doesn’t descend into this—this _bullshit_. They may like to party, but Asgardians are honest, at least. Backstabbing isn’t as frequent.”

 

“That you know of,” Daimon points out, resting his chin on her shoulder and wrapping his arms around her waist.

 

She looks at him. “ _You’re_ very touchy.”

 

“A beautiful woman in a dress that I like? Please, who _wouldn’t_ touch you,” he nuzzles her neck. Thankfully, the hickey’s gone.

 

“That was almost sweet,” she tells him fondly. “Though I don’t know if you prefer me or the dress.”

 

“Oh, you, but the dress comes in a close second. It would look better on my floor.”

 

Steph laughs. “I can’t believe you used that line _seriously_.”

 

“It would,” Daimon protests, but there’s a curl of amusement behind it. “My floors in my house are pale wood. The blue would look stunning, but you in my bed would be even _more_ stunning.”

 

“Okay, you need to stop now,” she says. “You may just hurt yourself with how bad those lines are.”

 

“Oh please, you love cheesy dialogue.”

 

“You can take the girl out of the Robin, but you can’t take the Robin out of a girl, this is true,” she admits. “Though if you keep that nuzzling up, I will be forced to find an alternate space. This is far too public.”

 

“I accept that challenge,” Daimon mutters, grabbing her hand and pulling her down the stairs into the garden.

 

“Thought you preferred a bed.”

 

“Outdoors can have its perks, with the right props.”

 

The garden is the epitome of English wilderness, darkness hiding behind each leaf in the glens. Yet there’s an order to it, Steph supposes when she drags Daimon behind a tree—well, considering it’s the garden of the _Lady of the Lake_ , well, there probably should be.

 

Daimon lets her drag him behind said tree, but he clearly has other plans. After a kiss (or two...or three...), he tugs her deeper into the garden, and now she’s lost. The lights from Avalon are completely gone, and the garden is so overgrown that the light from the moon is gone.

 

The night is dark and full of terrors.

 

The only point of reference is Daimon’s slightly-sweaty hand holding hers, and the leaves that keep hitting her in the face. Her arms are starting to itch, but it’s so mild that she barely notices.

 

They finally come to a stop besides a small pool surrounded by willows. Here, the moonlight won the struggle to hit the ground, and it’s reflected in the pool, but it’s purple, not white.

 

She likes that.

 

Daimon kneels by the pool, fingertips skimming the surface but never really touching it. “This is a faery pool,” he tells her. “The magic of the faeries that live in will keep us from being disturbed,” _at last_ , she tacks on in her mind. “It’s safe here,” he adds quietly, sitting back on his haunches. “Faery magic is amazingly against all other types of magic or violence.”

 

She sits down next to him, holding her skirts carefully, before she touches the pool water with her index finger. The water’s a little fizzy around her finger, and in the moonlight, she sees a little blue-skinned creature detach from the bottom of the pool and touch her fingertip with its whole hand. She thinks the creature looks female, but she may be misgendering on the basis of how dainty it looks.

 

The creature smiles at her, before ducking back underneath.

 

“They’d spit water at me, but they like you,” Daimon observes. It’s not tart or sarcastic, and it’s a change from their usual banter, so much so that she turns to stare at him. He shrugs in response. “They don’t like creatures with darkness in them.”

 

“I’m human,” she starts to argue, but he shakes his head.

 

“Slightly different. Darkness, to them, means touched by Hell. Doesn’t mean evil, just means their magical aura’s a little different. The Fae and associated of the Seelie Court are creatures of light—they don’t do well with creatures of darkness.”

 

“Oh, okay,” Steph nods. “Unseelie—that’s dark Fae, right? Queen Mab and stuff?”

 

“I wouldn’t say names like that aloud here,” Daimon cautions her. “Names have power, especially fae places of power. But yes, that entity is the queen of air and darkness, and dark Fae tend to haunt the deserted places, the places that always give you a bad feeling, even if you don’t know why. Light Fae, on the other hand, like places that make people feel safe, and happy. Neither group likes to be seen, but they’re always there in some way.”

 

Steph takes her finger out of the pool, looking up at the moon. “That’s vaguely creepy.”

 

“It’s been that way since light first fought dark galaxies away, millennia ago,” Daimon shrugs. He stands up, only to perch on a rock that’s placed by the pool, looking her over.

 

She returns the look with frank interest. Daimon cleans up good, she thinks with satisfaction. He’s still in his leather trousers and leather overcoat (but then, _so many people_ in Avalon wear leather that he wasn’t out of place in the slightest), but the shirt he’s wearing is white and crisp, and his red hair is tied back.

 

“Admiring the view?” Daimon inquires, leaning back on his elbows.

 

“I believe I was,” she informs him.

 

“You could appreciate it much more from here,” he tells her helpfully.

 

“Is that right?”

 

“Are we ever going to stop doing this?” he asks tiredly. “We make everything a challenge.”

 

Steph gazes at him. “Challenges can be fun,” she points out.

 

“Yeah, not disputing that. But sometimes they’re too much.” He lets out a deep breath. “C’mere.”

 

She goes, a little rattled by the tiredness in his voice. He stands up as she gets close, and he turns her around so he can unbutton the dress. “It’s so nice, I would hate to see it get mussed,” he tells her, a little impish. He pulls it down as she steps out of it, and her underskirt follows, until she’s just standing before him in her corset, stockings, and heels. He stares for so long she starts to feel self-conscious, and she instinctively cradles herself.

 

He tsks quietly, taking her hands and slowly pulling them away. “You’re gorgeous,” he says at last, tucking her against his chest and burying his face in her hair, as tied-up as it is. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

 

“You’re only saying that because you can’t see my scars,” she jokes, but it turns flat on the last word.

 

“Scars give character,” he disagrees, breathing in her scent deeply (and that should creep her out, but it’s not), “and I’d like to know yours better.”

 

A million responses leap to her tongue, most sarcastic, but she chooses not to say anything. There’s something special about this place—that must be why he’s treating her like she’s porcelain. She won’t spoil it.

 

He takes off his coat, letting it fall to the ground. His fingers drop to his buttons, but she bats them out of the way, and he lets her, watching with lidded (flaming) eyes as she focuses on unbuttoning his shirt. She takes her time, the way he did with her clothes, and her corset feels tight as her breath quickens (she’d been lacing them deliberately so that they were comfortable, because _hell to the fuck no_ if she was going to have them as tight as they could be). She reaches the last button, and finally looks back up at him, and she’s not prepared for the look on his face. She’d known he was fond of her, but the look on his face goes beyond fondness, but it’s not love, not love as she perceives it. It’s not fascination or obsession or simple lust. She has no words for it, only a comparison that it’s similar to the look on Cass’s face when Steph dreamt her flying to Europe.

 

It sends her stomach roiling, so she looks down quickly, tugging Daimon’s shirt and letting it fall on top on his coat. Daimon touches her chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up, and for the first time, she wonders how old he is. She’d initially read him as around his mid-twenties, but he seems far older now, aged by whatever look that was on his face.

 

His kiss is so gentle, she wonders what happened to the incubus who ravaged her mouth just—was it this morning? Daimon _must_ have some kind of telepathy, because he chuckles as he breaks away. “This morning you got the demon, tonight you get the man.”

 

Her knees are melting, and she grabs onto him to prevent from falling down. His arms go around her, and this is ridiculous, what the hell has he done to her if that kind of thing (which is _so_ cheesy) can make her weak in the knees?

 

He picks her up like she weighs nothing at all, and hey, she may be short but she is solid muscle, so it’s a little more impressive. Tim could lift her, and so could Dick (Damian _did_ , but he kept making remarks about ‘Fatgirl’ so she doesn’t count him), and Bruce as well, but let’s face it, the Batfam is very much an outlier in the community as a whole, so she kind of likes that Daimon can.

 

Her back hits a tree trunk, and she absently wonders if that’s what he meant by ‘man,’ because she doesn’t exactly consider wall sex (or in this case, ‘tree’ sex) to be, quote-unquote, _gentle_ and Daimon seems to be going for _gentle,_ but tree sex and gentle don’t really—holy shit, that was awesome, do that again.

 

Her underwear is hanging off one foot and Daimon’s pants aren’t all the way down and she supposes she should feel trashy, but fuck the haters, seriously and— _ohh_.

 

She knots her fingers in Daimon’s hair, tugging him down for a breathless kiss, to which he responds enthusiastically, twining their tongues together as he slams into her, and it’s really a very good thing that she’s tucked up against the tree like this, because otherwise, _so many bruises_.

 

Also, Daimon is the king of well-preparedness, because she didn’t even have to remind him about the whole condom thing.

 

“You are easily one of my favorite people,” she gasps out when he pulls away from her mouth, “You are way too good at this.”

 

“I’m so glad,” and oh god, he sounds _sincere_.

 

There is too much emotion in this, and it sours her orgasm a little, but before she can catch her breath and maybe distance herself, Daimon’s switched his angle so he can brush against her clit on his thrusts, and her thighs clench around his waist as she comes again.

 

So, multiple orgasms? Yeah, that’s a thing.

 

Daimon’s still going, though, and she feels a little oversensitive, almost a little too stretched-out, but at the same time, she’s been so starved for touch that where their bodies touch—obviously at their pelvises, their chests, and their mouths—it makes her feel safe.

 

He makes her feel safe.

 

She resolves to examine this later, enjoying this now.

 

Daimon’s thrusts are starting to stutter, and he’s rolling her clit between his fingertips, wringing a third orgasm from her as he comes, and her legs fall from his waist to the ground as they just breathe together.

 

Daimon kisses her temple, and then her hair. If they had been anybody else—if Steph didn’t have Cass—this was the moment she would have said, “I love you,” and maybe even meant it.

 

But she belongs to Cass, heart and soul, and she wants her back.

 

Daimon staggers away (and it amuses her), to sit down on the rock, blindly pulling his shirt on and fumbling with the buttons. “You are amazing,” he tells her fervently.

 

Her back is all sweaty. Corsets, great for pushing up boobs. Not great at absorbing sweat.

 

She dips her hands into the pool, trickling water over her chest and down her back, before daubing at her skin with her cotton underskirt. Daimon watches her carefully as she buttons on her underskirt before pulling on the blue dress. She turns to Daimon. “Help me button it up?”

 

He smiles slightly (and she’s a little relieved, apparently his low-level telepathy ends post-orgasm), gesturing her to come forward. His touch is professional (no trailing fingers here) as he buttons up the back of the dress, and he helps her with her hair, tucking loose pieces back into her French twist. “Am I presentable?” she asks.

 

He kisses her forehead. “Of course.”

 

They need to go back, her absence will have been noted, but Steph finds herself lingering by the pool. Out here, there is no artifice, but in there, she has to paste the smile back on her face, ignore the millions of comments about her mortality (and inevitably her gender comes into it too), while acting gracious all the while.

 

She _really_ isn’t cut out to be an ambassador. Not to this crowd, anyway.

 

The ground trembles suddenly, and she almost falls into the pool before Daimon grabs her flailing wrist and wrenches her back. She falls onto the rock, but the ground continues to shake, growing in intensity, and her fear spikes, because Steph remembers what happened with Gotham after a major earthquake. Daimon’s hold turns from stabilizing to comforting, as she tucks her face into his chest, trying not to panic and failing.

 

The water is rippling as though a T-Rex was stomping through the garden, she thinks a little hysterically, clutching Daimon’s coat. He’s running his hands over her hair and down her back. He may be talking to her, but her ears are roaring and the ground _is still shaking_. She hears branches fall, and she flinches. She thinks wildly about the faeries in the pond, whether they could survive this or not.

 

Finally, the ground stops shaking, and she breathes in and out carefully, forcing down her panic. She’s shaking, and Daimon is concerned. “Steph, what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

 

“Earthquakes. Bad memories,” she says shortly, focusing on beating back the panic. It’s not easy.

 

“I’ve got you, you’re safe,” Daimon promises, using his touch to anchor her like he did during the whole Nightmare debacle.

 

It helps.

 

Finally, she’s able to stand up, but she seriously needs some sugar, so they start to head back. Daimon knows where he’s going, which is good, because she has no clue.

 

“Do you know what happened?” she whispers, not wanting to be too loud. “Last I heard, earthquakes weren’t exactly common in the UK.”

 

“I have a suspicion,” he tells her, just as quietly.

 

She stares at him, then at Avalon as it comes into view. The place looks wrecked, fire coming out of the windows and cracked walls. The nobles are milling about on the grounds, looking lost.

 

“What did you do?” Steph whispers.

 

Daimon makes an aborted movement, like he wants to take her arm. “It was Loki and Leah and the Manchester gods,” he says. “My job was just to find the places of power.”

 

“You blew them up, didn’t you,” it isn’t a question. “And taking me out of the ballroom? Why?”

 

Daimon ducks his head, and she sees it. “You wanted to protect me. So then—all of that—“ _the faery pool, the moment that made me almost **doubt**_ , and suddenly she’s furious. “I am perfectly capable of defending myself, Daimon Hellstrom,” she hisses. “You at least could have _warned_ me.”

 

“No, I couldn’t have,” Daimon retorts. Her anger seems to stir up a similar reaction in him, and she’s indignant. What the hell does _he_ have to be angry about? “You represent Asgardia, sweetheart. If you knew beforehand, that makes you complicit.”

 

“Good ol’ CYA,” she spits. “You _used_ me. Let me guess, I’m somehow supposed to oversee a peaceful transfer of power?” She extends a hand over Avalon, glaring up at him. “Does _this_ look peaceful to you?”

 

“It’s better than the alternative,” Daimon grinds out. “Which would have been annihilation.”

 

“I. Do. Not. Need. To. Be. Protected,” she says spitefully. “I know how to duck and run with the best of them, I’m from _Gotham_ , remember? How many casualties will be a part of this? How many civilians? Oh yes, the nobles will get out okay, they have programs in place for that. But the civilians, who have no say in this war? What about them?”

 

“Perfect question,” a smooth voice answers, and Steph turns to see a grey man in a steampunk suit walking towards her. The nobles are shying away from him, but Steph stands her ground, feeling the hilts of her knives press up against her thighs and lower back. “I had anticipated someone asking that question, but not the Ambassador of Asgardia. But then, with your background, you would have a unique perspective, would you not?”

 

She feels, rather than sees, Daimon leave. Good riddance. She can’t stand the sight of him right now.

 

Whoever this guy is, he’s not expecting an answer, because he moves over and she sees a contingent of his followers behind him, one of them holding Loki and Leah. “I believe _these_ are yours,” he says carelessly. “Otherworld spies. We knew them immediately, of course. Loki’s name alone was an indicator. You can have them back.”

 

The one holding Loki and Leah lets them go, and they run to her, Loki to wrap his arms around her and Leah to stand behind her. “I’m sorry,” Loki mutters. “It had to be done.”

 

“We’ll talk it about it later,” she promises under her breath, and Loki gulps. “I am, um, so pleased you know who I am,” Steph tells the man in grey, “but unfortunately, I don’t have the same courtesy.”

 

The man bows, completely ignoring the nobles around him. “I am Master Wilson of the Manchester gods, Ambassador Brown. It would please me greatly if you could join us here at the Round Table, to arbitrate our discussion and act as witness. King Arthur has surrendered, and now all we need to do is talk terms.”

 

Guinevere strides forward, looking every inch a queen. “You will treat the captured with respect and dignity,” she says crisply. “The women are not to be molested, the men are not to be harmed. Do you understand?”

 

Wilson bows again. “My lady queen, of course I do. I hear and obey.” He turns, but then something occurs to him, and he turns back. “Though if harm does occur, I will punish the one who does it. The one who pronounces the sentence must be the one to carry it out. Ambassador Brown, I would be ever so pleased to offer you my arm.”

 

Steph gulps, looking at Loki and Leah. “Stay out of trouble, you two,” she orders them _sotto voce_ as she walks over to Wilson.

 

Loki bows jerkily, holding onto Leah’s arm.

 

Steph swallows again as she takes Wilson’s arm and hopes that her distaste isn’t exactly visible. Something about Wilson just sets off her creeper alert, and her arms aren’t tingling, but something’s definitely wrong about him.

 

“Since they surrendered to you full-stop, what use am I?” she asks politely, because she really doesn’t want to be a part of this.

 

Wilson smiles down at her. “Someone should act as witness. A neutral party, preferably. You are witnessing not only a change of government, but also a change of state. The Otherworld as you and I have known it no longer exists. Now the people have risen, and they will have a voice.”

 

_Do you hear the people sing, singing the song of angry men/it is the music of a people who will **not** be slaves again._

Steph shivers, and Wilson becomes all concern, taking off his tails and draping them on her shoulders. “I believe I forgot you’re human. My apologies.”

 

Bullshit. He totally didn’t forget.

 

His coat feels metallic and cold, and it’s not helping the chill that’s running under her skin. She’s a Gotham girl, ‘regime changes’ are a fact of life when you live in the poorer parts of Gotham, but most of the gangs who ruled their neighborhoods with iron fists didn’t try to hide their crazy. To be a gang leader in Gotham, _something_ had to be wrong with your head.

 

Wilson’s so much of an idealist it blinds him to other things, and Steph’s angry, suddenly, because this is a man who believed in his values so much he thought it was worth killing children for.

 

Steph shrugs out of the jacket and gives it to him, walking forward to the main audience chamber where the Round Table is set up in Camelot (which, incidentally, is right next to Avalon, and the Otherworld is seriously freaking her out with its freaky geography, because she _knows_ they weren’t that close in real life). Wilson’s confused at her sudden speed, if his “Ambassador Brown?” is anything to go by.

 

Good. Let him.

 

King Arthur is already sitting down at the table, his head in his hands. Merlin and Nimue are on either side of him, Merlin sitting, Nimue standing, while Captain Britain is standing in the corner, looking seriously angry. An auburn-haired woman in Victorian-era formal garb is sitting at the table, a typewriter in front of her with papers to the side of her.

 

The Otherworld contingent perks up to see her, but when Wilson enters right after her, they slump again. “Ambassador Brown has graciously agreed to act as witness,” Wilson smirks. “This is my aide, Martha Granholm. She will be taking notes. Shall we sit?”

 

“I should get back to Avalon,” Nimue says quietly. “I will need to tend the wounded.”

 

“Oh no, Mistress Nimue, you are needed here, as a witness and as a signatory. You represent a side of the Otherworld, and your signature is required.”

 

“It is _Lady_ Nimue,” Nimue hisses. “I am the Lady of the Lake, you will refer to me by my rank.”

 

“Perhaps you misunderstand,” Wilson says quietly. “You have lost. What rank you have is yours no longer. You may certainly petition for it, perhaps as Head Healer, but the office of Lady of the Lake no longer exists.”

 

“I beg your pardon, sir, but it is not from the speech of man that determines who is Lady of the Lake. It is the Goddess herself, and you will respect that,” Nimue raps out.

 

“Ah yes, the _Goddess_ ,” Wilson says in the tone of ‘what will they think of next?’ “Where is she?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“If she choose you, then why did she not come to your aid, or the aid of Camelot?”

 

Nimue looks like a cat about to hiss. “She did, you yawping imbecile. We are not dead, are we?”

 

“You are alive, not at the goddess’ mercy, but at mine.”

 

Nimue tosses her head. “Oh indeed, such a convincing argument. You call yourself a druid, yet you deny the existence of the Goddess and the God. You will address me as Lady, since the Lake is my domain, as I was charged with.”

 

“Again, you misunderstand,” Wilson looks more amused than anything else. “The Lady of the Lake no longer exists.”

 

“And _you_ misunderstand, because it is not _you_ who can dissolve the office,” Nimue challenges. “That lies outside the realm of man.”

 

Steph dearly wants to bang her head on the table. This is going to take a ridiculously long time.

 

\--

 

“How did you get Nimue away from the Holy Grail?” Hela says with interest, navigating the steep stairs leading down into the source for the White and Red Springs carefully.

 

Leah is lagging behind Loki, and he’s not thinking much of it, other than that she’s not as affectionate with Hela as he has seen her be, and it worries him. Have they had a falling-out?

 

“Distraction via paperwork,” he explains, holding out a hand to Leah on the last step. To his surprise, she takes it, standing close to him as Hela ascends the stairs to the Grail, dipping it into the source waters of the springs. “Wilson owed me, so...”

 

“Consider your debt to me paid in full,” Hela tells him, before drinking the water in one go. Green magic starts to play around her left wrist, taking the shape of a skeletal hand, and then he hears a cut-off sob from Leah, and he turns to stare at her.

 

Her very being is coming apart in the same green sparkles of magic, and tears are running down her face, but he doesn’t know if it’s from pain or grief, but he realizes what’s happening just as Leah starts to fade. “Don’t cry Loki,” Leah tells him, crying herself. “I’m a handmaiden.”

 

Hela appears oblivious to their grief, grinning in delight as her hand starts to form, at the expense of her most faithful servant. When Leah has faded completely, leaving only traces of her scent behind (lilies of the valley and chocolate), Hela hums in contentment. “That’s done.”

 

“You—you,” Loki doesn’t know how to put what he feels into words, and though Ikol is flicking his wingtips in consternation, Loki _has_ to say something. “You killed her. For your hand.”

 

“Technically, she was never alive,” Hela dismisses. “She was a magical construct, nothing more.”

 

“Nothing more—you—“

 

“Careful, little Loki,” Hela warns. “Do not test my patience.”

 

“She was devoted to you, and you sacrificed her for—for a _hand_.”

 

“Of course she was devoted to me. She was _me_. Who must Hela love, if not herself? The purpose for her construction was to be my hand all along.”

 

Loki stumbles to the ground, hardly believing what he was hearing. “How can you say that about her? She had choice, she had will, how was she not real?”

 

“Tell me something, little Loki. Girls, as they grow, hit milestones. Did you ever see her with a haircut? Did her hair grow? Did she develop? Did her voice change? Did she reach her monthly flowering? Did she hit any of that, despite you knew her for long enough that you should at least have seen her grow? Well, little Loki?” When he does not answer, Hela shakes her head. “Her growth was frozen, for she was a construct, nothing more, nothing less. She had free will and choice, because I chose to imbue her with it, but it existed at my mercy.”

 

“You call it mercy,” Loki whispers.

 

“Of course I do,” Hela rears back, surprised. “She had a life, brief though it may have been. She may have been a construct, but she had a lifetime’s worth of adventures, and now I know everything she does. Or did. I’m sorry, was that too soon?”

 

“You’re a monster,” Loki tells her.

 

Hela’s face hardens. “Who is more of a monster, the monster or the one who birthed her? They say you’re my father, Loki. Shall we test that?” She leaves in a flare of shadow, and Loki buries his face in his knees.

 

Ikol lands on his shoulder.

 

“Am I really her father?” Loki says through numb lips. Strange, how everything has gotten so cold.

 

“It is rumored,” Ikol admits, flicking his feathers. “A myth. She existed long before us, and likely will after, but yet the stories persist. In all honesty, I do not know.”

 

“I don’t understand how I could have fathered such a creature,” Loki whispers. “Not now, not ever. You may have been evil, and I may have done evil today in delivering the Otherworld to Manchester, but losing Leah to...that far outstrips anything else.”

 

Ikol bates and looks displeased, but Loki can say no more, too overcome with emotion to question himself any longer.

 

\--

 

Steph finally gets away after Wilson chides the Otherworld for not assisting with the Serpent (“There is no excuse, none, that would justify your inactivity. Your inactivity caused lives to be lost, and that is a debt you can _never_ repay,”), and Arthur and co. sign the document in several places, and then Steph signs herself as witness, and it’s long enough that her anger has time to cool, but she’s still furious with Loki, Leah, Daimon and the whole damned situation.

 

When she gets back to her rooms, she finds Loki curled up on her bed (it has been made—clearly her maid, whatever her name is, had time to change the sheets before the viva la revolution or whatever), staring at the wall.

 

“Loki?”

 

He sits bolt upright, staring at her. She plants her hands on her hips. “Did you tell Daimon to protect me during your little coup d'état? Because I am _not amused_ , Loki, I am fully capable—“

 

“Stop it,” Loki orders, and she stops, a little worried. The kid’s voice is _raw_ , like he’s been crying, and she suddenly realizes she doesn’t know where Leah is. “None of it matters anymore, okay? None of it. Nothing.”

 

“Loki...where’s Leah?”

 

“Where do magical constructs go when they die?” Loki wonders, laughing mirthlessly. “They’re assimilated, duh, they don’t even get a funeral. Because they’re _not alive_.”

 

“Loki. Where is Leah?”

 

Loki finally looks at her. “She’s gone.”

 

“Gone? Gone where? Back to Hel with Hela?”

 

“In a manner of speaking, meaning not at all.”

 

Steph sits down next to Loki, reaching for his hand to check his pulse. “Loki, please, tell me what happened.”

 

“Leah’s a handmaiden, get it? She’s a maiden, made out of the energy used to create a hand. She went out on a _pun_.”

 

That sounds really bad, as in not good. His pulse is erratic, all over the place, and she’s worried. “Loki, breathe.”

 

“How can I breathe when my best friend is dead?” he shouts.

 

And then the world just...stops.

 

“Leah is dead? Who killed her?”

 

“Hela. Hela, that evil, conniving _bitch_. I repaid her in full with access to the holy water of Avalon and the Holy Grail, and she _killed Leah_ so she could have her _hand_ back. She was doing perfectly fine without it! But she ‘needed it back,’ so she killed Leah, and doesn’t feel any guilt, because ‘Leah was a magical construct’ who was ‘never really alive despite having free will and choice,’ because she never ‘hit development milestones’ that girls that age hit.” Loki’s voice catches on the last bit, turning his words into a grief-stricken wail.

 

Steph feels tears spring to her eyes, her anger with her kid forgotten. “Oh Loki,” she opens her arms, and he falls into them, pouring out his grief into her chest, and she holds him the way she always wanted to hold Tim, but he never let her. But Loki’s letting her hold him now, letting him grieve, and she feels his pain, rocking back and forth, biting her lips to stifle her own sobs.

 

She was stupid, thinking that because she wasn’t home, she couldn’t be hurt emotionally. _Cass, where are you? I need you_.

 

Once Loki’s quieted down, his wrenching sobs turned into hiccups, she tells him gently, “We’re leaving in the morning. The All-Mother has been contacted, and Stark’s plane will be waiting for us at Heathrow. You should get some sleep.”

 

“Here?” Loki’s face is so impossibly young. “Please? If I’m alone tonight, I’ll dream, and I don’t want to.”

 

She feels her face crumple at the admission, and she smoothes a loose strand of hair from his hood from over his eyes. “Of course you can. Of course you can.”

 

\--

 

Wilson accompanies them to Heathrow in the morning. Unlike the ride to Avalon, Steph avoids looking at the monuments and landmarks, because it reminds her of Beryl and she can’t deal with that right now.

 

She and Loki are sitting up straight, carefully avoiding staring straight at Wilson, who alternates between staring out the windows in delight, and looking at Steph and Loki.

 

The kid looks too tired to be awake, but he carries on like a champ, back straight and gaze unflinching. Wilson doesn’t say anything, so Steph doesn’t either, trying not to show any visual signs of nerves or anger (which is still there, BTW) that would betray her.

 

“Nice day,” Wilson finally says.

 

The day is overcast, but not rainy. Steph supposes that for the UK, it _is_ nice. “Yes. Indeed.”

 

“Did you sleep well?”

 

Steph bites her tongue. Loki had slept soundly, but she had been plagued with nightmares of Leah and Cass stuck with Black Mask, and she and Loki had been trying to get to them. It shifted a little bit each time, but every time, she could hear Cass and Leah screaming. Her arms are marked up with scratches, and they sting underneath her sleeves.

 

“Well enough,” Loki says, not looking at Wilson. “Thank you.”

 

“Where is your friend—Leah?”

 

“She went home with Lady Hela,” Steph inserts, keeping her hands from clenching. Loki blinks once, but since he’s been blinking, it’s not noticeable.

 

She hopes.

 

“Oh, how sad, I’d wished to thank her for her help.”

 

They’re silent all the way to Heathrow, and Wilson exits first, to help Steph through, and Loki follows, a silent shadow in green and black. Steph feels her anger burble up, and she gestures to Loki to go into the plane, turning to Wilson. “Tell me something, Master Wilson,” she says coldly. “Was all of this worth it?”

 

Surprise crosses Wilson’s face. “Of course it was, Ambassador Brown.”

 

“Even the death of children?” she spits out.

 

“Ambassador Brown, I hardly know—“

 

“The poor, and their children, those whose cause you shout and fight for—they _died_ for this war you were so anxious to wage,” wow, that Shakespeare class _really_ came in handy, “and so I ask, was it worth it?”

 

Wilson’s face settles. “Oh, the children and the poor who lived around Camelot and Avalon?” he asks coolly, rocking back on his heels.

 

“Yes,” Steph spits.

 

“I think you had better look at those who put them there, you see, because my peoples’ war machines were loud, clanky, and slow. The Otherworld as it was always knew when we were on the move, even if they could not stop us. Instead, they left their poor and their children out in harm’s way, perhaps to protect themselves, and harm came calling,” Wilson’s smile is cold, predatory. “Look to others to blame for the death of children, Ambassador Brown. Manchester is not at fault.”

 

Steph can’t talk, she’s so angry, so she whirls on her heel to walk up the stairs into the plane. Wilson calls after her, “You and Loki are welcome any time, of course. As my...personal thanks.”

 

Steph feels bile rise up in her throat, but she swallows it, nodding to the pilots that they can close the door, stumbling into the cabin. Loki’s stretched on a couch, fast asleep, and she pulls down a navy blanket from the overhead compartments, settling it over him before running into the bathroom, coughing. When it’s clear her gag reflex is under control and it was only messing with her, she wipes down her face with water from the tap, breathing deeply.

 

She may not like Wilson, but he’s a damn sight better than the people who let children die.

 

Now how to explain that to the All-Mother....

 

\--

 

“—and on top of that, we lost a valuable ally, one that shared our values, and for _what_?”

 

Loki and Stephanie cringe in unison as Freyja whirls to a stop, frowning at the two of them.

 

“I did the best with what I knew,” Stephanie says steadily, though her hands are trembling slightly. “I am not exactly educated to be a diplomat, _which I warned you about_. The Otherworld would have lost sooner or later, if only because Manchester had better toys and a sympathetic cause. It just ended up being ‘sooner.’ This way, you still get a government that upholds all its treaties, as I know Wilson sent in his official correspondence, and you get one with better technology. Also, should something like the Serpent happen again, the Otherworld is likely to respond now, since Wilson took a good chunk of time to scold the Otherworld for _not_ responding. I don’t have a legal or political background, I barely have 30 college credits to my name, and you have absolutely no right to scold me for what I didn’t know.”

 

“It is possible we erred on that front,” Gaea acknowledges, placing a hand on Freyja’s arm and standing up. “But it is we who erred; we will ensure you have the necessary education should we require you to fulfill this function again. As for Manchester, we may hold recognition until we see that they are the _de jure_ government, rather than _de facto_.”

 

“Um, about that,” Stephanie says apologetically. “I kind of signed an agreement as witness representing Asgardia?”

 

Freyja flaps a hand. “Coerced signatories do not stand, as a rule. Since you had no idea what you were getting into, or what would happen to you or your charge should you refuse, you played the field as you knew it, and that will certainly be the tack we take on this while we deliberate. _Master_ Wilson may disagree, but we are under no obligation to recognize his government.”

 

“There is something else,” Stephanie says quietly, and Loki sees her hands tighten into fists, the only visual indicator she is angry. “Wilson led me to believe that the numbers of civilian dead on the side of the Otherworld were at least partially the Otherworld’s fault, since they did nothing to move or protect their citizens from Manchester. Is there a legal way to sue Otherworld-That-Was for that?”

 

The three women share a glance, before looking back at Stephanie. It is Iðunn who takes the lead on that one, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, propping up her chin. “No, there isn’t, but not necessarily for the reason you think.”

 

“Using civilians as a possible protection did not start with them, and they will certainly not be the last,” Freyja explains, turning her face away. “Entities like the Otherworld are not signatories to mortal Geneva Conventions or the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. _We_ had to sign them, just like we had to sign the UN Charter, to be accepted as an international personality, but the Otherworld and others are under no such restrictions. No, there is not a legal solution, and we cannot prosecute in any case.”

 

“The death of civilians is always regrettable,” Gaea says softly, “but we are not in charge in cleaning their house, and our treaties with them do not allow for such action to be legal.”

 

Stephanie is clearly steeling herself to say something radical, like, perhaps, “Call the Vatican” (Loki really should lay off the procedurals), but Freyja forestalls her. “We have to act within the confines of the law,” Freyja tells her gently. “We are not only accountable to the Otherworld, but to the international community as a whole if we do not, and we cannot afford that kind of criticism and scrutiny. I am sorry—it is a despicable thing—but there is nothing we can do.”

 

“And on top of that,” Iðunn adds, looking out the window, “Surtur is on the move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, Exiled kicked my ASS when I was trying to write it. I don't really understand the arc (I get that Loki sold a spell to Sigurd, the Disir were involved because Kara or Bruin or whomever slept with Sigurd, Bor wasn't happy--but I cannot sit and make sense of why that arc is important, except that it freed the Disir). My original ideas for this arc was that Steph was Idunn's foster-daughter and she babysat Loki and Leah, but I could never get it past that original idea, so instead I went with that when Loki made the spell, he did not make it with Steph in mind, so there was no place for her in the mock-world that the spell created.
> 
> Second of all, I'm currently taking international law, and I had just begun international law when I got to the Otherworld arc. I had a lot of fun writing it. De jure means lawful--the govt got there through established lawful means (like the US holding elections every four years. It's technically a lawful change of govt). De facto, however, means the govt that is. It got there through extralegal means (like, say, a military coup). Recognizing govts means you send diplomatic envoys and are willing to do business with them, and recognition can be and is VERY political. 
> 
> About Wilson--I liked him in my initial reading of the arc, and when I went back to reread for the purpose of writing this chapter, I realized how much of his speech was manipulative, and manipulative towards Loki, to boot. Granted, I fleshed out the characters more than Gillen did (I wish he'd spent less time on Exiled and more on Manchester), and I found Arthur to be very sympathetic, but he's primarily a military leader, not so good on the political stuff. Guinevere is very good at the political stuff (think Fergus and Elinor from Brave), and of course Merlin and Nimue represent the spiritual aspect of the Arthur myths. But when you stop to think about how the Otherworld is run, it's a Crapsaccharine World, and I wanted to highlight that. Feudalism's great if you're at the top! If you're not, well. Too bad. 
> 
> I wasn't entirely sure how to write Steph in this arc, because classism was a major thing to her. She's working class, and working cheek-by-jowl with Tim and Bruce would have thrown the privilege into the spotlight. This is why I wanted to see Steph/Jason interaction--they come from a similar enough background that I wanted to see them discuss stuff like the classism/privilege of the main Batfam. I didn't want Steph to fall all over how wonderful Wilson is, because he's not (he set off my creeper buttons the second reading), but at the same time, she'd acknowledge that he has a point. (Kind of like Jerkass Has a Point). This is the happiest medium I could come up with--BOTH suck, but at least Manchester will play towards equality more than the Otherworld has.
> 
> We're in the home stretch, ladies and gents.


	5. Act 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I lied--more cameos and more explicit content in this act (though the explicit content is near the end, so, yeah).
> 
> Trigger warnings include ableist language, mobs, references to violence to animals, violence to children, references to torture, mention of menstruation, and sexist language. We're at the end, my ducks, so prepare for Big Damn Heroes.
> 
> I swear to you, this chapter was written long before this past month's issue of Young Avengers came out, and I disagree with Gillen's characterization of Ye Olde Douche as Tyrion. JSYK.

 

Asgardia resembles a war camp in just a few days after that. The warriors are _always_ out in the square, running practices, patrols, and information gathering. Amora and Steph had to cancel lessons since Amora was needed for information full-time, though she gives Steph written instructions on how to conceal herself in shadow (“A _must_ for war time,” Amora had scrawled), how to heal minor wounds, and how to teleport (“It will probably make you sick, but the spell is simple enough and has varied uses”).

 

Though Steph and Loki are not technically a part of the troops, Sif does demand that she and Steph pick their arms practice back up, but this time, it’s not to keep in practice. Sif wants Steph to use a sword.

 

“This blade is almost as long as my _legs_ ,” Steph says patiently, eyeing the sword Sif is holding out for her.

 

“It will give you longer reach,” Sif tells her. “Take the damn thing.”

 

Steph takes it gingerly by the hilt, and it’s heavier than she anticipated, but she rotates her wrist. “I’m really good with my knives.”

 

“Knife-fighters have to be quick and clever,” Sif allows, “but I would not recommend them as a primary weapon in the thick of battle, since it allows your enemy to get closer to you. Unlike others of _our_ warriors, should someone attempt body-to-body with you, _that_ is when you can take a knife and stab them.”

 

“Body-to-body?”

 

Sif gestures that Steph should put her sword up, and Steph does so. Sif takes out her sword, swinging the blade towards Steph, who instinctively blocks her, and the hilts lock. Sif’s only a couple of inches away from Steph’s face. “See how knives help here?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Steph chirps.

 

With a twist, Sif releases their swords. “Your block was good—I know you’re good with a staff, and the movements can be similar. If we had more time, I’d teach you elaboration in the movements, but all you need to know is—”

 

“How to slash and hack?” Steph tries.

 

“Slashing more than hacking,” Sif reproves. “A point always beats a side of the blade. You lunge like so,” she demonstrates. “Now you.”

 

Steph nods, mimicking her. The lunge is all thigh, using the knee as the fulcrum. Thank god she’s stayed in practice, because Sif makes her practice those lunges again and again until her knees are shrieking with it. _Then_ Sif has her practice parries and thrusts _with_ lunging, and by the time Sif lets her go, she’s staggering a la _The Walking Dead_.

 

The sword she used was a practice one, but Sif promises there will be a real one for her tomorrow (“That matches your armor,” Sif had added mischievously. “My armor,” Steph grumps, running the water for a bath. “What everyone’s been promising but never following up on.”).

 

Thor’s out on the frontlines, living up to his Bruiser status, and Loki’s worried for him, since every time Thor returns, he’s some variation of singed. Loki’s taking care of him, and Steph isn’t about to take away Loki’s time with his big brother, not when he’s still mourning Leah.

 

She is, too, but it’s easier to channel her grief into action. Sif’s pleased with her progress, and from what she understands about Surtur from Loki and the All-Mother, it doesn’t seem inconceivable that Surtur would come after Loki. She needs to be prepared.

 

Ha-ha. Inconceivable.

 

“My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die,” she mutters as she sinks into the bathtub.

 

She doesn’t have much time to enjoy the bath, since a large bell goes off as soon as she’s rinsed her hair. She struggles into her clothes, her hair a wet mop on her head, going as fast as she can to the main meeting square.

 

Oh. Surtur has aligned Vanaheimr with him. That’s not good.

 

“We must fight them,” Thor growls.

 

“We must remind them of their responsibilities,” Freyja reminds him. “We have treaties, after all.”

 

“They’ve just ripped up your treaties,” Thor protests.

 

“I admit I do not know what my sister is thinking,” Freyja says icily, and Steph has to pause. Freyja has a _sister_? “But she is sure to have a rationale to throw aside Asgardia thus.”

 

“What good is this rationale when it helps us not?” Sif inquires.

 

“That is why we must fight them,” Thor puts in.

 

 _Wow_ , they’re a you-solve-a-situation-with-violence-and-if-it-still-a-problem-you-haven’t-been-violent-enough culture. Steph pulls on the ends of her damp hair, letting the wind hit the underside to help it dry faster. Loki’s holding Thori and looking pretty excited about what’s going on, and she wonders why. Does he think he’ll be going to Vanaheimr with Thor and the rest?

 

Oh _hell_ no.

 

Yeah, no, he’s definitely thinking he’s going as Thor and Sif begin to (loudly) announce their plans. Steph catches Amora rolling her eyes from her place in the background, and Steph smothers a laugh as she realizes that if Vanaheimr has any spies in Asgardia, they definitely know what’s coming now.

 

Freyja raps her knuckles on the arm of the chair, calling attention. “Thor, you will lead a strike force to Vanaheimr and talk my sister into sense. If she does not listen, you have permission to remind them of their obligations.”

 

Loki bounces, Thori looking less like a deranged Hel-puppy and more like a long-suffering kitten in the hands of a child, and says, “Can I come?”

 

“Absolutely not,” Steph snaps.

 

Apparently they had no clue she was there, because the entire group _jumps_. Right on, Bat-powers activate. It’s Amora’s turn to stifle a laugh into her palm, her eyes dancing with malicious glee. Loki looks hurt, a little. “But Stephanie--.”

 

“No, do not ‘ _but Stephanie_ ’ me. You are a child, Loki, you have no place on a battlefield.”

 

“I will not let him to come to harm,” Thor rumbles, taking a step forward. Loki looks really happy about that, and Steph hates to be the rain on his parade, but Loki is _eleven_. Even squires tend to be in the middle teens.

 

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. But he’s _eleven_ ,” Steph points at him. “That is too young.”

 

“Bran Stark saw a man executed at ten.”

 

“Bran Stark is fictional, and his family has the motto _Winter is Coming_ , so whatever he goes through is obviously par for the Stark course. _In addition_ , Bran Stark was not _on a battlefield_ at ten.”

 

The rest of the Asgardians look at each other, lost, and Steph also really wants to know how Loki knows _Game of Thrones_. _Please_ don’t let him be plaguing George RR Martin in his sleep.

 

“Loki may go,” Freyja rules, sitting back in her chair. “He should come to minimal harm with Lady Sif and Lord Thor. We have a task back for you here, Lady Stephanie, or we would certainly be sending you with them.”

 

Steph opens her mouth to object, but Freyja steamrolls on. “You must go quickly, so that Vanaheimr spies do not have time to report to my sister.” Yep, there’s that intelligence that Thor and Sif didn’t really think of. “Lady Stephanie, with me.” Freyja stands up and walks off the dais, Steph following her after hissing a “Be careful” to Loki.

 

“Your armor has taken much longer than it should have,” Freyja’s sentences are clipped, and Steph realizes the defection of Vanaheimr shook Freyja more than she had showed. “It did not help that repairs had to be made as well as...other issues most Asgardians are not aware of. Amora recommended, however, that we create two sets for you, one like hers, and one that was normal.” She throws open the door to the palace, flicking her fingers at the guards and they scurry away. “Amora’s armor is most similar to your concept of...body armor, I believe? A vest that is reinforced that agents of the law wear to protect themselves from flying metal.”

 

“Kevlar,” Steph supplies.

 

“Yes, like it, but in the sense of not at all.” They’re practically jogging up the stairs, and Steph is super glad to be in shape right now. “I promise the armor will be moved to your quarters as soon as possible, but I am not certain as to how secure those quarters are and I would prefer to give you your assignment in a place I _know_ is safe from prying ears. In here, please.”

 

“Are these your quarters?” Steph asks quietly, entering the room while Freyja shuts and locks the doors.

 

“Yes.” Freyja bustles around her, leading her into a second room where a carved wardrobe (Steph giggles to herself) waits dramatically, a much smaller wardrobe next to it.

 

Freyja goes to the smaller on, opening it and pulling out something that shimmers in the half-light of the room (the shutters are closed). “I’m giving this to you first, simply due to the nature of your mission.” She brings it over to Steph, draping it over her body and eyeing the length. “That should do.”

 

The thing feels just warm enough, and it’s so _soft_ that it’s hard to believe it’s some kind of armor, but as Steph peers at it, she gasps. “Is this _mithril_?”

 

Freyja’s brow furrows. “I know not what that is, only that it is the strongest armor the dwarves can forge and as light as you can imagine. It goes underneath your underclothes, except for the necessary garments,” magic Asgardian underwear, Steph translates, “and the lines from your clothes will obscure the fact that you are wearing it. Please, put it on quickly. There is very little time.”

 

“What about the second wardrobe? Is that my conventional armor?”

 

Freyja nods. “Indeed.”

 

“Can I see it? Since everyone keeps talking about it.”

 

Freyja nods. “Be quick. As I said, we do not have much time.” She stands back, lets Steph open the wardrobe and—

 

 _Oh_.

 

It was totally worth all the waiting, Steph decides instantly, reaching out a hand to trace the etchings on the breastplate. It’s got Loki’s sigil (the V on the circle), but a bat (an _adorable_ bat) is perched on the inside of the V, framed by it.

 

“It denotes that you are your own agent while sworn to Loki,” Freyja explains.

 

“Like House Karstark,” Steph mutters. “No, I get it. Though their _name_ is what denotes agency and fealty, not their sigil. It’s beautiful.” She sighs, closing the door. “All right, what is this extra special mission you need me to go on?”

 

“I need you to go to Hela, to discover if she is going to side with Surtur. We cannot afford to lose Hela and Niffleheimr, not at this point, for the fire eating the Nine Realms is coming _here_ , and Niffleheimr may be the only place where we are safe.”

 

“So...you’re sending me on another diplomatic mission.”

 

“Necessity demands it,” Freyja says crisply, tugging Steph’s tunic over her head. Steph complies, though she pushes Freyja away to take off her shirt. She’s wearing her favorite corset underneath it, and Freyja smiles slightly while Steph pulls the mithril over her head. It lays flat over her corset and trousers, and she pulls her shirt and tunic back on. “Hela likes you, if not trusts you. She is more likely to answer you with honesty, without rancor, than if it were one of us or Loki or Thor.” Freyja clucks over the mess of Steph’s hair (that’s what you get when you call me straight from the bath), starting to brush out the knots and braiding it. “We have transportation arranged and—”

 

“Daimon Hellstrom?” Steph demands, remembering what he said about the chair she had delivered to Hela. She’s still mad at him.

 

Freyja raises a brow. “No. Sleipnir.”

 

“Who?”

 

Freyja’s smile is not exactly comforting, something Steph repeats as she stares at the horse currently held by That Guard Who Won’t Tell Her His Name. “Sleipnir is...a horse.”

 

“Indeed.” Freyja strokes the horse’s nose, which relaxes from pawing the ground and closes his eyes. “The mount of Odin.”

 

“You’re putting me on the mount of Odin,” Steph repeats. “A horse. With _nine legs_.”

 

“Is that a problem?”

 

“I can barely ride a horse with _four_ legs.”

 

“Sleipnir is a good mount,” Freyja assures her. “He will not let you fall. All you need to do is get into the saddle. He knows the way to Hel. We do not have much time, Lady Stephanie.”

 

Goddamnit, Freyja.

 

Swearing internally, Steph approaches the ginormous horse, which cracks open an eyelid to look her over. “Put out your hand,” Freyja says softly. “He needs to know your scent.”

 

Steph puts out a hand, really hoping the horse wouldn’t bite. It would _hurt_.

 

The horse—Sleipnir—snuffles her palm, and then looks her over again. “Blow gently into his nostrils,” Freyja encourages.

 

“ _What?”_

“He will know your scent,” Freyja says impatiently.

 

Upping the rated-ness of her swearing, Steph does so. Sleipnir chuffs as she pulls away, and then he turns his back on her, and Steph has a moment of _oh my god the horse is going to kill me_ but then she sees that Freyja’s grinning, and she realizes Sleipnir is offering her his back.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Freyja and That Guard are happy to put her on the saddle and then the horse just _goes_ and holy fuck, there is much clutching of the bridle and screaming because yeah, it’s like a roller coaster without the seatbelts, and while that may be fun to some, it is _not_ to her and then—

 

Oh wow, welcome to Hel.

 

“Lady Stephanie?”

 

“Oh hi Tyr,” Steph manages to say after a moment. Sleipnir eyes her and chuffs again (holy shit, she’s getting side-eyed by a _horse_ what the hell is her life), and Tyr offers a hand so that Steph can get down...but it’s really more of a slithering experience than anything else. “Hela home?”

 

“She is, but why do you need to see her?”

 

“Where is she?”

 

“In the greenhouse, but—Lady Stephanie!”

 

She leaves the horse there in the courtyard, running through the hallways. The mithril’s bound against her body by her clothing, but it bounces a little and she finds herself wondering if there was a way she could tie it. She can hear Tyr behind her, and she _knows_ she’s breaking all sorts of rules of propriety or whatever, but she is _so done_ with the proper way to do things, and she wants...she doesn’t know what she wants, but she does know that she doesn’t want to be in Hel, but she doesn’t want to be with Loki necessarily, or in Asgardia or even back home. She just _wants_.

 

“Stephanie?” Hela asks with some surprise, putting down her watering can. “What is it?”

 

Steph swallows and stands upright. “The All-Mother wishes to know if you will ally with Surtur.”

 

“That was a question you obviously needed to run here for,” Hela observes, wrapping a sheet over the plant she was watering and putting it into a box.

 

“Vanaheimr has fallen,” Steph explains, still a little out of breath.

 

“Well, that certainly changes some things,” she looks at Tyr. “Where are we with the packing?”

 

“Your library is almost done, my lady.”

 

“Get who ever can be spared to pack up the rest of the greenhouse. I need to confer with Lady Stephanie.” Hela wipes her hands on her apron, removing it and gesturing for Steph to follow her. “Vanaheimr...that must hurt the All-Mother greatly. For them to ally with Surtur...” Her voice trails off, and Steph looks at her, only to realize Hela is _afraid_. “Are they mad?”

 

“Surtur is like Satan, right?”

 

Hela takes a deep breath, composing herself. “Not entirely. He is the flame who will devour the world. His appetite can never be slaked, and so thus, it will never be enough for him. He will eat the Nine Realms and still be hungry. Has the All-Mother not informed you of this?”

 

Steph shrugs as Hela leads them out of the palace and onto a balcony, where they can watch people hard at work ferrying stuff to waiting carts. “All I got was that he’s bad.”

 

“He is very, very bad. I do not like Asgardia, and the feeling is mutual, but I have more sense than to ally with _Surtur_. His messenger must be persuasive indeed. Or perhaps just playing on what Asgardia has done; or rather, not done.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Steph says, a little defensively. She’s rubbing at her left forearm. It’s itchy, but not danger-itchy. Just itchy.

 

Hela zooms in on it. “What is wrong with your arm?”

 

“Oh, nothing. Just itches sometimes, you know, nerves crossing wires and stuff.”

 

Hela ignores this and takes Steph’s arm, shoving up the sleeve to show the deep red scratches, and underneath that, the spiraling white-and-pink burns. “Who did this to you?”

 

“The scratches?”

 

“No, those are clearly self-inflicted. The burns.”

 

“Oh, um, Daimon Hellstrom. We were fighting, he was mad, and he lost control.”

 

Hela straightens. “This is not right.”

 

“He made up for it,” Steph tells her. “He turned the burn marks into an early alarm system, that they’d tingle when I’m in danger.”

 

“And the scratches...?”

 

Steph shifts from her left foot to her right foot. “I’ve been having nightmares,” she says after a quick breath. “I wake up and I’ve scratched my arms to ribbons.”

 

“Nightmares. Hm,” Hela looks deep in thought.

 

“I’m pretty sure it’s not Nightmare, though,” Steph tacks on hastily. “Since he kinda inadvertently told me that he can die in someone else’s dream, I haven’t seen hide or hair of him.”

 

“Of course it’s not Nightmare,” Hela snaps. “You’re too strong for him.” She pokes Steph in the sternum, “too much conviction here for him to sway you. But—“

 

“But?”

 

“Bah. I’m raving. No, I will not be allying with Surtur. Does Asgardia wish to go to Niffleheimr should Asgardia be set alight?”

 

“I think Freyja mentioned it,” Steph admits.

 

“They are welcome—as long as they pay rent,” Hela’s smile is not exactly nice. “I cannot shelter them for free, of course.”

 

“What’s your rate?”

 

“I’ll be happy to discuss that in Niffleheimr, with all of us together. No need for you to get involved in the process—negotiation between gods can get, hm, messy. I would hate to shed mortal blood that did not need to be shed.”

 

“That’s _really_ comforting,” Steph says dryly.

 

Hela laughs. “Oh my dear, it is quite the compliment. I would not take such measures if I did not enjoy you so much.”

 

“I’m so glad to hear we’re friends,” Steph says, only partially sarcastic.

 

“I would not entirely describe it as friendship,” and that moment, Steph can see how Leah was a part of Hela. “More of...pets. Still, it is better than what I feel for most humans, which is disgust and contempt. You need never fear me, Stephanie.”

 

“That is _such_ a relief.”

 

Hela, honest to god, pats her head. “I should hope so. You should head back, for the hour grows late and I need to move my kingdom back to Niffleheimr.”

 

“How did you get separated from it?”

 

Hela’s face goes cold and still. “A very long story with an unhappy ending. Either way, I am returning now. Mephisto is a taxing landlord.”

 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Steph mutters, before bowing ironically and getting the hell (pardon the pun) out of there.

 

The ride back to Asgardia is just as strange and uncomfortable as the first, and she’s never been happier to see the All-Mother waiting for her.

 

But something’s wrong. As she gets closer, she sees that the All-Mother isn’t facing her, they’re facing a mob, and Steph’s blood races. That never ends well.

 

“Treachery!” she hears shouted, and Steph freezes, wondering what to do. Sleipnir nudges her forward, and she holds onto the reins, slowly walking towards them. She makes out “alliance with Loki” and “All-Mother,” but the moment they see Steph, the entire crowd falls silent, and the All-Mother turns, and that’s what seals it for Steph, that something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.

 

She’s seen the All-Mother rattled, but she has never seen them _afraid_.

 

“You dared let a mortal ride Sleipnir?!” Volstagg roars at last, and the crowd echoes him.

 

“You misunderstand,” Gaea says crisply, standing up and walking over to Steph. “Sleipnir _consented_ to allow Lady Stephanie to ride him.”

 

“She is not of Asgardia! She is the protector of Loki, a mortal woman, and she must be in collusion with him! And you dared offer her Sleipnir to ride, Sleipnir, the mount of Odin All-Father!”

 

“Be prepared to run,” Gaea says from the corner of her mouth. “Amora has prepared a safe place for you in Niffleheimr. Merely teleport yourself there and she will find you.”

 

“What about Loki?” Steph asks quietly as the shouts of the mob grow louder, calling for Steph’s blood to join the All-Mother and Loki’s.

 

“If Thor has sense, he will not bring him back here,” Gaea whispers, but then she closes her eyes when they all hear a familiar voice booming.

 

“Go out and around,” Iðunn orders without taking her eyes from the mob, who have turned on Thor. “They will not look at you, not now, and you must be prepared to grab Loki and run. Those are your orders. Protect Loki, and we may yet survive this. _Go_.”

 

Steph goes, moving around the crowd, desperately thinking, _you can’t see me, you can’t see me_. If magic is about intent, then she’s brimming with it, and she finally stands a few feet away from Loki and Thor. Thor is standing in front of Loki, and Loki’s trembling, so afraid of the people.

 

Steph...can’t really blame him. She whistles, quick and high, and it catches Loki’s attention. His eyes widen, and she gestures him close just as Thor turns to him and says, “ _Run_.”

 

They do.

 

Loki grabs Steph’s hand and she’s tugging him along, because she remembers how Amora described teleportation, and it was not exactly unlike Apparition, so they jump off the edge of Asgardia, still holding hands, and Steph twists in midair, thinks _Niffleheimr_ , and then they land in the snow, Loki standing and looking like a Disney princess while Steph lurches to her knees, face-planting.

 

Oh, it’s cold.

 

“Are you all right?” Loki says anxiously, helping her upright. “You could have been hurt. _I_ could have been hurt! That was your first time teleporting, wasn’t it?”

 

“Way to make it about you, kid,” she growls, spitting snow out of her mouth and sitting up. “What the hell is going on?”

 

Loki sighs. “’Tis a long tale, made longer by the telling.”

 

Steph folds her arms. “Try me.”

 

\--

 

“Holy shitballs Batman,” Stephanie exhales when he’s done. “Engel fire, Wilson being an idealistic, naïve son of a bitch, the wrong intel given at the wrong time...shit, son, does anyone like you?”

 

Loki feels stung by that, though he knows Stephanie does not mean it that way. “Well, you do.”

 

“Yes, I do,” Stephanie sounds tired. “And now we’re stuck hiding on this frozen iceball without a helpful fuzzy creature to kill and steal the warmth from its intestines. At least there’s no Abominable Snowman. I don’t think I could use the Force right now.”

 

“I will pretend that made sense,” Loki says, troubled. “I...I don’t know what to do.”

 

Stephanie runs an agitated hand through her hair. “Hela will be here soon, though I don’t know exactly when. We can throw ourselves on her mercy when she gets here. Surtur’s burning everything, and you don’t have any allies with the Avengers or anybody, do you?”

 

“There may be Dr. Doom, but since I haven’t exactly endeared myself to him, I’m not exactly throwing myself at his feet.” Loki shivers, brushing half-melted snow off his clothes, but too late, the damp’s already gotten in. Stephanie is shivering as well, but he doesn’t think she’s aware. “We are alone.”

 

“Well, you’re the baby trickster and I’m the mortal babysitter. Between the two of us, I think we can think of something. First things first, we need to find shelter and firewood. The cold will kill us before starvation and dehydration,” Stephanie stands up, offering him a hand.  “Come on. Despair will help exactly no one.”

 

He mutely takes her hand, lets her lead him. There is no threat of weather, so their tracks are defined, and Stephanie allows Loki to talk her into the two of them splitting up for Stephanie to set up a fire inside the cave they found while Loki hunts down more firewood, just in time for Thor to arrive.

 

Thor’s furious, and Loki cannot tell if it is with Loki or the situation, but either way, Loki finds himself being choked by his older brother, his face down in the snow.

 

Thor opens his mouth to roar something, but a whizzing knife going over his head cuts him off. Both of them look up, and Stephanie looks as furious as he’s ever seen her, one arm still extended while her left hand holds two more knifes. “The next one goes right in the eyes, Thor,” Stephanie spits. “You need to step off.”

 

“Lady Stephanie—”

 

“Let. Him. Go,” Stephanie hisses. “Last warning.”

 

Thor lets him go, arms slowly going up, and Loki thinks, _a woman_? But Stephanie has never feared the powerful in Asgardia, though they have made her wary. With what he knows to be true to her character, she will not fear retaliation from Thor, or even from the Warriors Three or Sif. “I meant no harm.”

 

“Yeah, explain that with your hand on his throat. He is your _brother_ , Thor, and a child at that. That is _not okay_.”

 

“Loki, I am sorry,” Thor tells him, letting him up. Loki scrambles to Stephanie’s side, not quite hiding behind her but it comes close. “I lost my temper.”

 

“No shit Sherlock,” Stephanie snaps. Thor starts to look a little annoyed. “That still does not justify choking your brother.”

 

Loki feels just petty enough to allow Stephanie to continue to rake Thor over the coals, but Stephanie does not know Asgardian culture enough that this is normal. “Stephanie, it’s all right.”

 

“It is not all right. Legally, that’s child abuse. Is that what Asgardia stands for, Thor? Would the Avengers stand for that, that the closest thing to a representative Asgardia has in the public eye commits child abuse?”

 

Thor looks lost. “He is Loki, Stephanie.”

 

Stephanie’s face matches the snow on the ground, and she’s reached fusion levels of rage. Too late, Loki remembers Stephanie was a victim of child abuse, and this could potentially be triggering for her. Everything that Thor could say that would hit every single one of Stephanie’s buttons with, perhaps, the exception of ‘he was asking for it.’

 

“He is Loki, Stephanie. No one would question it.”

 

And _that_ is why Loki hates Asgardia.

 

Stephanie’s fist balls up before she forcibly relaxes it, and Thor relaxes fractionally before Stephanie’s hand lashes out and slaps him across the face. “I cannot even deal with your bullshit,” Stephanie says quietly, rage just _pouring_ off her. “That you would justify threatening and harming a child because who he used to be—I just cannot.”

 

“Stephanie, can you give us a moment?” Loki bites his lip as Stephanie looks at him. “Please.”

 

Stephanie looks like she really wants to object, but she sighs. “I’ll be nearby.”

 

Thor watches her go, scowling. “She may be an ardent defender, but she should know her place.”

 

Loki swallows back his words, focusing on the major issue. “The All-Mother?”

 

“In custody. They’ve willingly given up their power to prove that they’re not in league with Vanaheimr. They’re safe, for the moment.”

 

“That’s good,” Loki pauses. “I am sorry for all of this.”

 

Thor’s face softens, and he claps a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “You’re safest here for now, under Stephanie’s care. Things should calm down on Asgardia in a day or so, and by then, we should have a better idea of what to do regarding Surtur, the All-Mother, and Vanaheimr. Stay safe, little brother.”

 

As Thor disappears, Ikol lands on his shoulder. “I knew she would fight for you,” the magpie says with satisfaction. “Even against Thor, she would fight for you.”

 

“Next time, she might _die_ for me,” Loki snaps. “Go away, old bird.” Ikol flaps off, and Loki heads back to the cave, following Stephanie’s tracks and thinking about how to say please don’t fight Thor for me ever again, but he stops and stares, because he could have sworn the tracks promised something, but they lied.

 

Because Stephanie is gone.

 

\--

 

Amora finds him not long after that, her face pinched with worry. “Loki? Oh sweet child, what happened?”

 

“Stephanie is gone, I am alone, the All-Mother is locked away, Surtur is burning everything, and you dare ask me what _happened_?”

 

“Stephanie is gone? How?”

 

“I don’t know!” Loki yells, at the end of his patience. “She just _is_. There are no tracks leading away, only to, and I didn’t sense anything and—” he cuts himself off before he can finish. _I failed_. _I failed because she may be my guardian, but she is mortal and it is my responsibility to ensure she is not attacked._

“Who would have taken her?” Amora’s trying desperately for reason, but he can see beyond it, and it surprises him that she is genuinely affectionate of Stephanie, because the few times he’s seen them interact, Amora’s been snide and rude.

 

Loki kicks a small pile of snow. It’s not as satisfying as he would like. “I don’t know. If it was one of the big players, “ they both know who he’s talking about, “there would have been a signature, some residue. Stephanie would have fought or screamed.”

 

“But there was none of that.”

 

“No, none.”

 

“Instead, it is though she has been taken without a trace, unawares. And she is one of the most aware people I know,” Amora furrows her brow. “Teleportation, perhaps?”

 

“That would have left residue,” Loki points out, but he still gets up and follows her into the cave, the white of the snow abruptly ending at the dirt line.

 

“Not if someone was trained not to leave a trace,” Amora looks—furious. Vengeful. Loki knows this is leading somewhere he will not like. “Or if they must leave a trace, to hide it in plain sight?”

 

The back of the cave is dank with shadow. Loki had not wandered in this far, disliking the feel of it, but he had written it off that it was Niffleheimr, the realm of the dead.

 

“What are you supposing?”

 

“There is one that would have such training, one that you and Stephanie are acquainted with.”

 

And that unhappy feeling of knowledge is strengthening. “Yes...go on.”

 

Amora finally turns her gaze to him. “Do you think Daimon Hellstrom could do such a thing?”

 

No, he wants to say. Hellstrom would not take Stephanie without her consent, not when consent matters so much in his world.

 

But Hellstrom would protect her, as his promise to do so to Loki would attest. Loki had naturally assumed that Hellstrom had merely taken that promise for the evening, to keep Stephanie safe and unmolested from the conquering force. But, as Stephanie was fond of thinking aloud, _Hellstrom was not human_. He looked human, and acted human, but his lineage was at least partially demonic. The rules of his world were not rules as the humans saw them, but legitimate barriers of behavior. What if Stephanie’s acceptance of Hellstrom and Loki’s demand of protection had culminated in creating a need to protect her, at the expense of her consent and acceptance?

 

“Yes,” Loki finally sighs. “He could do something like this, but he would likely have done it to protect her, which implies he knows something we do not as how safe Stephanie may or may not be.”

 

“We must find him and _kill him_.”

 

“Do we have that kind of time?” Loki asks as they walk out of the cave, glittering green magic shining from Amora’s fingertips. “Should we not focus on finding Stephanie?”

 

Amora takes a deep breath. “ _I_ will focus on finding Stephanie. _You_ will focus on meeting Hela and getting her help.”

 

“But I--,” cannot do it alone.

 

“Loki,” Amora’s voice deepens. “If Hela will not help, it matters not if I can find Stephanie and bring her back. Do you understand?”

 

He looks away. “Yes.”

 

Amora surprises him then by leaning down and kissing his forehead, before disappearing with a ‘poof’ and slight sizzle of green magic. Loki has no idea where she would even begin to look for Stephanie, but he sighs and starts to trudge through the snow. All Stephanie told him was that Hela was moving back to Niffleheimr, and she’s sure to be here somewhere.

 

He manages to stumble across Hela and her court not too long after, a patrol ready to string him up by his thumbs (that was not exactly the word the patrol used), but Tyr intervenes at the last possible moment (a “Big Damn Heroes” moment is what Stephanie would call it), and takes him to Hela.

 

He pleads his case, wondering if it would be proper to invoke Stephanie’s name (if you help Asgardia, you will help _save Stephanie’s life_ , but it seems hysterical and just not him), but then, Hela rejects it.

 

“You will not have our help,” Hela says, examining her fingertips on her makeshift throne (apparently her usual palace is not quite completed). “Asgardia has failed in their obligations too many times. I will not help.”

 

“But...”

 

“The answer is no, Loki. Now please leave. I do not desire to look upon you for some time.”

 

Loki goes, wondering where on earth he must go now.

 

\--

 

Steph stares in dismay at the white clouds around her feet. She can’t tell what she’s standing on, and she tries to clear the clouds so she can look, but they remain frustratingly opaque.

 

The temperature is comfortable, and she can breathe, but other than that, this is not Earth. She’s still wearing her Asgardian clothing—the press of the knives in their holsters against her skin is comforting—but it’s like she’s been displaced from one reality to another.

 

She isn’t hungry, and it’s been hours since she last ate. Okay, so wherever she is, her physical state is...paused. She tests it by taking out a knife and tries to cut her finger; it doesn’t take, and she _knows_ the point is sharp enough.

 

She falls, deliberately, without catching herself. The breath leaves her body in an ‘oomph,’ but there isn’t any pain.

 

She doesn’t have to go to the bathroom, either.

 

“You have got to be kidding me,” she says with disgust, kicking some of the clouds that have a strangely cottony texture. “ _Not. Cool._ ”

 

\--

 

Leah. _Leah_ is alive. _Leah_. Oh gods, why is Stephanie not here, to take part in this?

 

“And you have lost another friend,” Leah-who-is-not-Leah-but-still-makes-him-happy observes. “Tell me, has Stephanie abandoned you in disgust?”

 

“She is gone,” Loki says, and he begins to realize what he must do, to trick Leah, so he can trick Surtur. What was it Stephanie had said? ‘ _You’re a baby trickster and I’m a mortal babysitter, so between the two of us, we can work it out?’_ Oh Stephanie, forgive me for what I will do. “I have sent her away, and her debt to me is finished. She is home, now.”

 

Leah eyes him skeptically. “Home, where she is not remembered?”

 

“Home, to her lover,” Loki says blandly. “She is not holding me back any longer, and though I valued her company and she fought for me valiantly, she was not suitable. Too much mortal compunction. She would not agree with my actions, when looked at as a whole.”

 

“What?” Leah sounds uncertain. Good. He can work with that.

 

Loki spreads a hand. “Look at all my actions. Not my reasoning—that was certainly my rationalization for Stephanie and for myself at the time—but at my _actions_. I killed my—I killed Thor. I released Surtur. I brought down the Otherworld government. I essentially stabbed a knife in the back of everyone who ever crossed my path, and I made them _thank_ me for it.”

 

“You did not hurt Stephanie.”

 

“Her lover is in Limbo. I most certainly did hurt her, for what stings more than lost love than utter nonexistence? I even made an omnipotent artifact and set it aside, just in case,” he smirks at her. “Did you tell Surtur of it?”

 

“I did not,” Leah admits.

 

“Good. We may just need it,” the smoke is getting in his eyes, but he cannot back down now, so he blinks away the tears and focuses on Leah.

 

“What are you saying?”

 

Oh, Leah. “You know exactly what I’m saying.  You were my only real friend, my only real equal. Stephanie refused to cry in front of me, you know. She felt it did harm to the relationship she and I had. The real Leah—she— _you_ —saw the real me. Stephanie was incapable of that. She believed that old me was not me, and that affected how she saw the rest of Asgardia. She believed a lie,” he bows his head. “Hela enslaved you to me, made me find a way to destroy you—for a _hand_. Nothing more. What value is a hand over a life? The All-Mother blackmailed me. Half of Asgardia would slit my throat if Thor and Stephanie were not there to stop them, and the other half would cheer. And Thor? My dear, sweet... _idiotic_ brother? He brought me back here, and for what?” He spreads his hands. “He _missed_ me, but he _left me with them!”_ There’s genuine emotion here, more than he would have thought. “So my answer is simple, Leah.”

 

He turns to look at Muspelheimr. “Let it burn. All of it. And Leah and Loki will dance on the blackened corpses of those who’ve done us wrong.”

 

Ikol chuffs, fluffing his feathers out in consternation. “Loki. Why did you not...”

 

“Tell you? _You_ of all people?” Loki chuckles mirthlessly. “I do not trust you, Ikol, and I certainly could not trust you with this.”

 

“Because I am evil Loki.”

 

“No, because you are Loki,” he corrects, “as am I.”

 

Leah has fallen to her knees. “You—no. _No_. You monster, you...are brilliant.” Her smile is dagger-sharp.

 

“Can you trust her?” Ikol mutters.

 

“Not the question. I will always trust Leah, but can _she_ trust me?” Loki clears his throat. “Please, Leah. Surtur will give you revenge, but he cannot give you a better life. I can. I will destroy every single one of the Nine Realms to make it up to you, except,” his pause is calculated, but Leah is so enamored of what he is saying she does not spot the artifice, “I cannot trick Surtur.”

 

“No,” Leah’s grin is beginning to disturb him. “But _we_ can.”

 

\--

 

Steph is sitting, chin propped up by her hands, kicking at the clouds. She can’t harm herself, can’t harm her environment, and can’t focus on her sense of magic to try to get her out of there.

 

In short, her life sucks.

 

What’s happening _out there?_ What’s happening to Loki? Asgardia? The All-Mother? Sif? Amora? She has no idea, and it’s eating away at her.

 

She’s actually needed.

 

She’s pondering the course of life and her choices (where is Sassy Gay Friend when you need him? Although she hates how much he calls everyone ‘stupid bitch’), when she sees a teenage boy slowly start to materialize in front of her, sitting cross-legged, eyes closed.

 

She pokes him in the knee, and jumps back when he goes “AUUGH!” and falls over.

 

“Who the hell are you?” she asks.

 

“Billy Alt—no, I’m Billy _Kaplan_. Just call me Billy.”

 

“Well, ‘Just Call Me Billy,’ where are we?”

 

“An oubliette,” he explains. His face reddens. “I may have watched _Labyrinth_ too many times as a child.”

 

Oh sweetie. Why do you remind me of Tim?

 

“Who didn’t?” Steph asks. “I’m Stephanie Brown. How do you get out here?”

 

Billy’s face twists with confusion. “How did you get here?”

 

“I was in Niffleheimr,” she says slowly, “giving Loki and Thor a moment alone--.”

 

“Loki’s _alive_?”

 

“Oh, yeah. What, you didn’t know?” Billy shakes his head. “Oh yeah. Anyway, I was heading back to our shelter when I just...ended up here.”

 

“Why were you with Loki?”

 

“I’m his babysitter,” Steph says honestly. “Old!Loki saved my life back in my home dimension, in return for me protecting him at the right time. This was the right time, though I am not currently in the right place.”

 

“Why are you _here_?” Billy’s beginning to look seriously freaked-out. His eyes are getting big and a little twitchy. “This is _my_ safe space.”

 

“Wait, are you actually here? Or just meta-speaking here?”

 

Billy frowns. “What?”

 

“Are you physically here?”

 

“No, of course not. This is a place I go to in my mind when I need to feel safe.”

 

“Wait, I’m in your mind?” _Ewww._

“No, I don’t think so, because that implies my subconscious saw something and constructed you. I wouldn’t construct an extra dimensional blonde woman who would be Loki’s babysitter.” Billy looks deep in thought, and her heart aches at how much he reminds her of Tim. “The only explanation is that somehow, I created a real space, a pocket dimension maybe, but a real space that could be inhabited. Huh.”

 

“That’s very nice, but doesn’t actually tell me _how to get out of here!”_

 

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” Billy says, annoyed. “It’s not exactly every day you find out a metaphysical space you created is actually real, you know.”

 

“I’m sure I’d appreciate it more if there was a door involved,” Steph says sweetly.

 

Billy grumbles incoherently, closing his eyes and focusing. She can feel the power wafting off of him—he’s stronger than Amora—but there isn’t that feeling of something sliding into place that she’s begun to associate with magic solving problems.

 

Billy frowns. “This doesn’t usually happen.”

 

She can’t resist. “Well, performance issues. You know, one in four—“

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

She sighs. “I do have things to go do, you know.” She peeks at him. “Why do you feel like you need a safe space anyway?”

 

Billy freezes, and that’s interesting. “I just...do. And I’m working on getting you out of here.”

 

Steph waits, before sighing again. “You know, one of the definitions of insanity is trying the same thing again and again, expecting different results.”

 

Billy honest-to-god _flinches_ , and that was _not_ the reaction she was expecting. “There insanity in your family, kid?”

 

“Mother. Arguably,” Billy bites off.

 

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

 

“Whatever. Look, there’s nothing I can do. Whoever put you here is stronger than I am, and that’s not a lot of people, all things considered.”

 

“Oh goody,” Steph says glumly. “Something to look forward to.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Billy looks genuine about it, so she lets it pass. “Whoever put you here has to get you, sometime, right?”

 

“I’m just hoping it’s on the tail of sooner rather than later,” Steph confirms.

 

“Good luck,” Billy tells her, fading out.

 

She sits there for a while longer before deciding, fuck this, I can do katas.

 

So she does.

 

\--

 

She’s pondering the workings of universe when there’s a small _pop_ and Daimon’s standing there.

 

She stands up, infuriated. She pokes his naked chest with her fingertip, glaring at him. “Is this _your_ fault?”

 

“It may as well be,” Daimon admits.

 

“Why?”

 

“Turns out, wish magic works really different than what I’ve been taught. Since we slept together, I’ve had a peripheral awareness of you, and well, when Surtur made his bid for a flame-happy universe, I wished that you would be safe,” Daimon’s face is red. “So here you are.”

 

“Are you more powerful than that Billy kid? Billy Kaplan or whatever?”

 

Daimon snorts. “There is no way I’m more powerful than the son of the Scarlet Witch.”

 

“Who’s that?”

 

“Tell you later. First things first, I’m getting you out of here.”

 

She takes a step back. “I am not going _anywhere_ with you.”

 

“Are you seriously still pissed at me for taking you out of the equation during the whole Manchester-Otherworld conflict?” Daimon’s tone is incredulous, like _she’s_ the unreasonable one.

 

“Yes, actually,” she snaps.

 

Daimon throws his hands up in the air. “I fully give you permission to slap me for this, and you probably will, but I have some questions.”

 

“Oh, _now_ we have time for questions.”

 

“You’re clearly not going to leave this pocket dimension until I explain my behavior, so deal with it. When you were left at the hands of that psychotic nutcase and a power drill, who came to save you?”

 

Steph’s skin chills. “What?”

 

“Who came to save you?” Daimon asks slowly, his hands lowering to shove themselves in the pockets of his leather overcoat. “Someone must have. Who was it?”

 

Steph blinks furiously. “No one. I got myself out.”

 

“No one—wait, are you serious? No one came to save you during those three days?”

 

“They were a little busy fighting a gang war,” Steph says defensively.

 

“Still, 72 hours...a lot of opportunity there. And _no one_ came to help you?”

 

“I told you, I got myself out.”

 

“Moving on, the other times you needed help, did anyone save you?”

 

“Well, Kara and the girls that one time, and Thor saved my life during Tanarus’s identity crisis,” Steph says shortly.

 

“So, once at home that you can recall, and once here,” Daimon frowns. “Stephanie, has it ever occurred to you that that isn’t how it’s supposed to be?”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“One thing that I’ve noticed about the hero community is how tied they are to each other, at the end of the day. We had this registry act couple of years ago, and it ended, and it took some doing, but there was mostly reconciliation, and even the faces of that conflict are friends again. But it sounds like you had no ties.”

 

“That’s not true,” Steph protests. “I had Tim and Cass, and later Damian and Kara and Babs—I had ties, Daimon.”

 

“But those ties didn’t exactly save you when you needed it most.” Daimon is really intent on this, and she wishes he’d shut up. “How many times were you told to go home?”

 

“How do you make that jump?”

 

“It’s pretty logical,” he disagrees, “if they didn’t save you, maybe they didn’t want you around.”

 

“Too much,” she confesses, turning her back on him. It wasn’t until Batgirl that I was really treated seriously, she thinks but doesn’t say.

 

He puts a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. “Stephanie, how many people told you you were worth protecting?”

 

She stares.

 

Daimon sighs. “Look, I’m not this guy, okay? I’ve never been really touchy-feely or whatever, but whatever your damage is—and you have it, I know you do—it’s affecting how you see people when they want to do nice things for you. You’re worth protecting, that’s all. I know you’re capable—you’re one of the only people who handled my trident for any length of time after the self-defense was activated—but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you safe if I can. That’s all. Yeah, okay, I’ve been an asshole, but that’s not exactly new.”

 

Steph finds she can’t swallow. “What—you?” she coughs. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

 

“I was hoping,” Daimon admits, looking ridiculously earnest.

 

It’s the earnestness that earns him forgiveness. Really. Nothing else.

 

Steph sighs. “We can talk later,” she tells him, offering a hand. “Beam me up, Scotty.”

 

“You know Kirk never said that, right?” Daimon says, taking her hand and summoning his trident, making the oubliette-pocket dimension-thing disappear.

 

“Don’t care, still works,” she informs him, stepping away into what looks like her room in the tower. Yep, it’s her room in the tower, and she walks to the window, looking out, only to gasp and step back directly onto Daimon’s foot.

 

Asgardia is burning, and everyone who was there _isn’t_ there. The tower hasn’t been set alight yet, but it’s a near thing. “Why are we here?” she asks of Daimon.

 

Daimon frowns again. “Do you have some kind of anchor here?”

 

“The picture!” she runs to the bed, digging under the pillow. The picture from the photo booth of her and Kara is still intact, and she tucks it her shirt. “I need your help.”

 

“What do you need?” Daimon’s reply is immediate, and she appreciates that.

 

She sees the wardrobe out of the corner of her eye, and she turns. “How good are you with armor?”

 

“Well enough,” Daimon tells her. “Need some help arming up?”

 

“Yeah, I think I might.”

 

The smoke’s starting to billow into the window, so they don’t have much time.  Daimon helps her with the gorget, cuirass, vambrace, but _not_ the gauntlets (they’re a finely worked leather so they bend like skin, something Steph is very grateful for), and helps her out with the greaves, and he hands her the helm, while he buckles the cape (it’s a bright purple, very similar to Thor’s cape, and it connects with the necessary components of her cuirass) onto her shoulders. Once only the helm (it has batwings on it. _Batwings_. Awesome) is left, Steph looks at Daimon, who’s pulled out her sword from the wardrobe. It’s long, with the same format for the cross-guards as the etching on her cuirass, the V forming the cross, with the happy bat etched onto the hilt. Daimon hands her the sheath and belt, and she buckles it on, watching Daimon mutter over the blade as it turns a dark grey, before reverting back to its mirror-brightness.

 

“What was that for?”

 

Daimon looks at her. “You’ve written yourself into the stories of gods and monsters,” he says bleakly. “You need every extra boost you can get.”

 

“I need to find Loki,” she tells him.

 

“You’ve still got the shadow of the mental anchor you had with him,” Daimon tells her quietly as she sheathes the sword, uncomfortable in all the clank. “Tug on that, and it should tell you where he is. Do you need a teleportation spell?”

 

Steph grimaces as she tucks the helm under her right arm. “No, that I can manage. Believe it or not. Where are you going?”

 

A strange look crosses Daimon’s face. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he tells her. He smiles. “You look as fierce as Sif. _I’d_ hesitate to tangle with you.”

 

She grins back, and on an impulse, reaches out for his lapels. He almost loses his footing when she tugs him toward her, but he catches himself in time for her to kiss him, briefly. “For luck,” she explains after she lets him go.

 

“I wish you well,” he tells her.

 

She hesitates. “When we get out of this, I need to tell you about Cass.”

 

“I need to tell you about Patsy and Jaine,” he tells her.

 

“We’ll have one long storytelling session,” she nods. “Good luck Daimon.”

 

“Yes,” he clears his throat, and disappears.

 

Steph puts on the helm. “To business, then,” she whispers to the wind, focusing on Loki and that infinitesimal tie, tugging on it and disappearing herself.

 

\--

 

“Go, Thori,” Loki murmurs, as the dog runs off with his glove. “Good luck, you amazing, wonderful creature.”

 

The air becomes ripe with ozone, and a warrior steps through a portal, majestic purple cape flying in the breeze created by the fires of Muspelheimr. They wear a helm that looks to have some sort of  ‘V’ above the eyeline and batwings reaching towards the sky, but it is etching on the cuirass that gives it away—a bat on his sigil. He goggles. “ _Stephanie_?”

 

Her eyes are hooded, thanks to the helm, and her blonde hair is tucked completely out of sight, but she smiles at him and that undoes the picture of the mighty warrior. “Hey, kid. You been getting into mischief without me?”

 

“I’m so happy to see you,” he says fervently.

 

Stephanie holds up a gloved hand. “Don’t hug me, you might hurt yourself. Good to see you too, kid. So, what’s going on?”

 

“Surtur is trying to catch me with this,” he turns to gesture towards the Twilight blade, but it’s gone. He stares. “I swear I had it a minute ago, the Twilight blade.”

 

“Surtur’s after you,” Stephanie hints, trying to get him to give her the necessary information.

 

He turns away momentarily, to look at her. She’s crouched next to him, one hand on the hilt of her sword. “Yes, and you’re not going to believe this, but Leah is alive.”

 

“Leah? _Our_ Leah?”

 

“Not quite,” he admits. “The Leah I wrote into the Serpent’s story. She’s his messenger. Surtur’s, I mean. Not the Serpent’s.”

 

“She’s _alive_?”

 

“Yes,” he says distractedly, turning back to see if he can find the Twilight blade but—it’s back again. “ _What?”_ he whispers in confusion.

 

“Step back,” Steph warns, standing and unsheathing her sword with much ringing of metal. “Grab that and hold on.”

 

He grabs the Twilight blade and stands behind her, goggling at the force that awaits them—Hel-Wolf, Thori, and the Engels. “Puking zit of human flesh,” Hel-Wolf growls at Stephanie. “you will be dead before you can draw that blade.”

 

“If you want him, come and claim him,” Stephanie growls right back, holding up her sword.

 

“Thori,” Loki whimpers. “Not you too.”

 

“Not the time, kid,” Stephanie warns, pointing the tip of her blade at Hel-Wolf and tensing.

 

“You made me _kneel_ ,” Thori spits.

 

“I made you sit! Sit! That’s all.”

 

“He takes after his father,” Hel-Wolf says with pride. Flaming drool begins to fall from his mouth onto the stone below. “I look forward to your flesh, human bitch.”

 

Hel-Wolf lunges forward, and Stephanie shoves him to the side, rolling the opposite way, coming up with her sword and piercing the unarmored flesh of the rolls of Hel-Wolf’s throat.

 

Hel-Wolf growls a chuckle. “That bothers me as much as a biting fly,” he tells her.

 

Stephanie’s face is gleaming with sweat, but she laughs. “Try again, bastard.”

 

Hel-Wolf opens his mouth to roar, but then looks very surprised as he disintegrates into ash. The Engels raise their arms, ready to fire, and Thori yowls. “Daddy!”

 

“Shame he did not take more after his mother,” a rumbling voice fills the stone chamber, and Loki notes Stephanie looks relieved as everyone instinctively turns to see who speaks.

 

Garm and Hela’s warriors have come. Loki collapses with relief. He hadn’t been sure...

 

“Much of this could have been avoided,” Garm continues, looking down at Thori with distaste. “Good strike, mortal woman.”

 

“Thanks,” Stephanie says breathlessly. “First time out with this.”

 

The Disir jump from Garm’s back to surround them. The Engels try to fire at them, but the Disir more than live up to the fact that they’re Hela’s personal warriors now as they destroy the Engels easily. “Not that you could not have done it,” Kara informs Stephanie as Gondul and Bruin herd the two of them together, “but we are merely quicker.”

 

“I don’t know how to feel about that,” Stephanie mutters.

 

“Bruin, I need—“ Loki starts, clutching onto Stephanie’s forearm and the Twilight blade with equal force. He thinks Stephanie’s vambraces protect her from the worst of it.

 

“Hel does not listen to what you need,” Bruin tells him, not unkindly. “Kara, are you ready?”

 

“You don’t understand, I need to,” Loki loses track of what he’s saying as they fall through a portal in the ground.

 

Stephanie hits the ground in a clatter of armor and moans. “Oww. They never talk about that unless the authors are describing jousting,” she complains, sitting up carefully, grabbing her fallen helm and tucking it under her arm.

 

“—to be here,” Loki finishes in a rush, seeing Hela and Tyr. “Hello, Hela. Tyr.”

 

Stephanie straightens, holding onto her sword carefully. “My lady Hela.”

 

“Stephanie, it is good to see you free from that oubliette,” Hela greets, and Loki glances at Stephanie. _Oubliette_?

 

“You know, seen one oubliette, seen ‘em all,” Stephanie says.

 

Hela chuckles quietly. “I do appreciate your wit.”

 

Loki gulps. “Hela, I need to—“

 

“Go back into the story, change everything?” Hela stands up. “You have very little time, so do not delay.”

 

“What about me?” he hears Stephanie begin to say as Loki falls, through time, landing back in Dark Asgard, beginning to fall from the sky.

 

As he runs into the library, he barely notices another book falling down as he drops to his knees, searching. “How much time do I have?” he yells over the failing engines to Ikol.

 

“Not enough,” the bird says, unruffled. “The citadel is falling from the sky. Mere minutes, at most.”

 

He writes as fast as he can, freeing Leah as much as possible, capping it “To be continued, however she chooses,” before Hela’s flash of green light swallows him, and he intends to be back in Hel, with Stephanie, but he finds himself on his knees in Muspelheimr. “This is...not where I intended to end up.”

 

\--

 

Once Loki’s gone, Hela unfolds herself from her throne. “Stephanie, with me. Quickly.”

 

“Where am I going?”

 

“Back,” Hela tells her, leading her through the halls to the chamber of records, Tyr following at their heels. “We have only minutes, and it must be now, before the end of all things.”

 

“Wait, Surtur wins?”

 

“No, he loses, but at great cost. You must prevent this.”

 

“By letting Surtur win?” Steph is really confused.

 

“Surtur losing is predetermined,” Hela says with a sigh. “But the cost...may be mitigated. Did you wonder who placed you in that oubliette?”

 

“Daimon says his wish magic—“

 

Hela snorts. “The Son of Satan’s magic is far less than the Scarlet Witch’s, let alone her offspring. No, there is an entity called the Teller, and he made a deal with Loki long ago, that in favor of some current information, to eat Loki’s story.”

 

“Wait, _what_?”

 

“The Teller never saw you coming,” Hela says, running her fingers over the spines before finding the one she wants, a thin book (more like a pamphlet), “and everything that happened to you that no one can explain is an attempt by the Teller to get you in line. The assassin sent to kill you, the poison from your realm alone, even the nightmares to some extent—his attempts to control you. But everything that has occurred to save you from his control—you killing the assassin, the fact you healed spontaneously from the poison, even Hellstrom’s wards and the oubliette...you have thwarted him at every turn, changing Loki’s story.”

 

“How much do you know of what’s going on in Asgardia?” Steph asks quietly.

 

Hela rolls her eyes. “We have no time to discuss that, foolish girl. The last step of Loki’s journey, that would be his alone, is what seals the deal with the Teller and Old Loki. You must avert this.”

 

“How?” Steph asks helplessly.

 

Hela snaps shut the thin book. “First, you must go to Mephisto’s realm, persuade him not to take the Fear Crown from Nightmare.”

 

“Holy shit, that’s a thing?” Steph peers at Hela. “What’s in this for you?”

 

Hela straightens. “I despise Loki,” she says in a ringing voice. “Who he was, and who he stands for. This younger Loki, however, bears none of the sins of the father. Not yet, though he must commit some to bring us to where we are. I would spite Loki,” Hela’s smile is slasher friendly. “And who better than the one he brought to protect him?”

 

“You’re really creeping me out,” Steph says, shaking a little. “Besides, don’t you remember about mortals and Hell?”

 

Hela gestures to Tyr, who comes forward and drapes something around her. Steph gets an impression of a cloak full of stars before it melds into her armor and purple cape (hey, look, she’s going to keep the cape. It’s a _purple cape_ ). “That should keep you safe,” Hela assures her. “You are going as an ally of Loki, not as an emissary of Hel, so you should look the part.”

 

“Is anyone going with me?”

 

“No. For this to be seen as sincere, you must go alone,” Hela’s face creases into a small smile, and she cups Steph’s cheek. “Mephisto must fear the crown, and what it stands for. If Mephisto falls into the clutches of Fear, all is lost. You must tell him this, Stephanie.”

 

“And if he doesn’t listen?”

 

“He likely will not,” Hela shrugs, placing the book back on the shelf. “But it will delay him, long enough for us to take care of the rest. Go, my dear, with good luck.” Steph vanishes in those green flashes that Hela’s so fond of, landing in front of two burly guards with red skin and loincloths only.

 

Steph winces.

 

“What do you want, little mortal?” Tall Red Guy #1 booms.

 

“To seek an audience with Mephisto?” Steph offers.

 

Tall Red Guy #2 roars with laughter. “What makes you think he will speak to you?”

 

“I come as Loki’s messenger,” Steph says.

 

Tall Red Guy #2 abruptly stops laughing and exchanges glances with Tall Red Guy #1. “I will tell him you are here,” #1 says, turning on his heel and walking up the path behind the gate.

 

“So, uh, what’s your name?” Steph says to #2 while they wait.

 

#2 bows. “I am Faust.”

 

Steph stares. “No way.”

 

“Not the literary one,” Faust hastens to assure her. “My master merely liked the name. My comrade is Methuselah, on account of his life-span. He’s the longest-lived out of all of us who serve our master.”

 

So...Mephisto clearly enjoys the classics. That’s...frightening.

 

Methuselah returns, back straight. “Lord Mephisto will see you now. Faust, take her up.”

 

Faust bows, leading the way.

 

The heat is itching at her, and her arms feel like ants are crawling over them. She doesn’t need ward spells on her arms to tell her this place is full of badness, because the darkness curls up here and whispers nasty things to her.

 

She hates it, and wishes it would stop.

 

Mephisto is lounging on his throne, but he straightens when he sees Steph is full armor. “Ah. My lady Stephanie. Where is your errant charge?”

 

He oozes charm, but it’s Black Mask’s charm, and Steph barely represses a shudder. “Doing work,” she says shortly.

 

Mephisto laughs aloud. “Oh, but he leaves you to deal with me? What poor treatment.”

 

“I understand you have the Fear Crown,” Steph says steadily, focusing on her words instead of how much she wants to throw up.

 

Mephisto sighs and leans back in his throne. “Apparently no one can keep a secret anymore. Have you come to add to Fear’s case? You just missed him.”

 

“Oh?” Steph says, fighting to keep her words even.

 

Mephisto examines his nails. “He warned me not to trust anything from the Fear Lords, Nightmare in particular, since they’re all lily-livered cowards, and on top of that, he warned me that just because Nightmare assures me it is safe, does not _actually_ mean it is safe. Have you anything to add?”

 

“Who would know Fear other than Fear Himself?” Steph makes herself shrug. It’s an effort. “He knows the craft better than I.”

 

Mephisto’s teeth glint in a shark-smile. “I’ll tell him you said so,” Mephisto purrs. The only thing worse than Mephisto knowing who she is, Steph panics, is _Fear Himself_. Oh god, written into the stories of gods and monsters is right, Daimon. “So, what should I ‘fear,’ if you’ll pardon the pun?”

 

Steph shrugs again. “Imagine what should happen if the whole purpose of the Fear Crown is to make _you_ feel fear, Lord Mephisto? Who would be empowered? Who gains?”

 

“Such an _interesting_ query,” Mephisto murmurs, placing the tip of his index fingers on his chin. “Nightmare made the argument that the Fear Lords would rather be ruled by me, not Fear.”

 

“Because Fear won’t give them what they want,” Steph’s reaching here, but what she knows of Nightmare, it probably isn’t far off. “Maybe they think you’ll let them run loose— _if_ the crown doesn’t make you, the almighty Mephisto, feel fear.”

 

“An intriguing point,” Mephisto allows. “So what I should do then, Lady Stephanie?”

 

Steph raises her hands in the universal ‘question’ gesture. “I’m just a human, Lord Mephisto,” _please be the right words, please be the right words_ , “why should you take my advice? Take Fear’s—he knows his business.”

 

“That he does,” Mephisto sighs. “A few millennia of friendship do not go amiss, either. Very well, Lady Stephanie, I shall take what you have to say under advisement. _Do_ feel free to visit me,” his teeth glint in a smile, and Steph’s definitely this close to vomiting, “I would so love to hear your point of view on certain subjects.”

 

“I’ll think about it,” Steph chokes out.

 

“Pray do. Faust, take her back to the gate. Good day and good hunting, Lady Stephanie.”

 

“Thank you, Lord Mephisto,” because damn it all if she’s going to call him ‘ _my lord_.’ Hell to the fuck no.

 

Faust takes her back, chattering about how she’s the first mortal to come before Mephisto in a while without getting smited (which, BTW, isn’t exactly helping the nausea factor), and then Hela’s green light takes her back to Hel. Which is now in Niffleheimr.

 

Steph is really confused.

 

“Well?” Hela demands as soon as Steph gets her bearings.

 

“Fear was already there to see him,” Steph says, swallowing down the, ah, urge to purge. “Said pretty much the same thing I did, apparently. Mephisto said he’d take our advice under advisement.”

 

Hela stands. “Good. That buys us time. Stephanie, I am going to send you back to the near-past to reclaim the Twilight blade. You must change Loki’s story, rendering it completely alien from the story that the Teller planned. I do not know what the Teller did plan, but we cannot let the Teller and Old Loki win. Worlds depend upon it.”

 

“So no pressure,” Steph says tiredly. “Whose blood am I using again?”

 

Hela smiles. “Use yours,” she invites. “It makes no difference, in the end.”

 

“Will we be able to get the Twilight blade back to Loki?”

 

“Within moments,” Hela assures.

 

Steph closes her eyes, and then opens them again. “All right. Let’s do this.”

 

She’s used to the green portal by now, and she sees Loki (with herself, this is so weird, how did Hermione handle the Time-Turner?), and she reaches forward (quietly, Steph), and grabs the Twilight blade. The portal opens up, and she finds herself back on Dark Asgard.

 

 _God_ she hates this place, but she tries to remember which book it was that she saw Loki’s name. She really doesn’t have much time, she has to be out of here before Loki’s here, to change Leah’s story, and— _there it is_ , the book with the only title in English, and she flips to the last page.

 

_‘Loki’s final stand against the Void is a question to which we have no answer. Why did Loki do it?_

_Why did Loki create a child facsimile to house his consciousness, stripped of all but his innocence and his intelligence? When the time came for the question to have an answer, Loki and the child he imbued with magic and free will faced off against the Void. The child, seeing no alternative, allowed himself to fall into the Void, for the sake of preventing an even greater crime and Loki did—_ ‘

 

Well, that’s no good, Steph thinks grimly, sliding the knife out of its holster and opening a cut on her wrist, letting the blood splash into the empty bowl. She hears the shudder of screeching engines, and knows she needs to hurry it up.

 

The Twilight blade forms a quill, and she dips it into her blood, crossing out the final lines and replacing them.

 

_‘The child, armed with magic and free will, with the magic and free will Loki gave him, was not forced to fall into the Void. Instead, he chose a different path, marking himself and Loki as different people until the end of time. The child is Loki, and Loki is Loki, but these two are not the same, and the act of choosing allowed the child to assimilate his fears about becoming that which he was but can be no longer, and he emerged from the shadow, stronger for that which he passed underneath._

_And Loki lived his life as he so chose.’_

That should do it (thank you Shakespeare class), Steph thinks, closing the book and tucking the Twilight quill into her cuirass, getting up to go. She sees Loki coming, and she drops the book just as she disappears back into Hel.

 

“Is it done?” Hela asks urgently.

 

“My Shakespeare class really came in handy,” Steph tells her. “Yes, it’s done. What do I need to do now?”

 

“We just need to replace the Twilight blade, and then it is complete,” Hela says.

 

“More teleportation,” Steph mutters, as she falls back into a pool of green light.

 

\--

 

“So, I’ve saved Loki, and Loki’s saved...everyone else?” Steph inquires, looking around empty Hel. Even Tyr is gone, and it is just the two of them. “That seems...really quick, for everything. What, ten minutes?”

 

“Try fifteen,” Hela says, wrapping Steph’s wrist carefully. “I told you, time was delicate and it needed to be done.”

 

“I’m going to have nightmares about that for weeks,” Steph says with feeling.

 

“Oh, I doubt it,” Hela’s smile is once again slasher friendly. “All is not yet done. But I doubt nightmares will be plaguing you for some time.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘all is not yet done’?” Steph asks suspiciously.

 

Hela merely sighs. “Allow us some mystery, child. You have met with Mephisto and dueled with the Teller in the same day. Do not think to plumb the depths of all, not today. In the meantime, I will send you back to Asgardia, to be with the All-Mother. Loki will find you there, but you must not speak of what you have done, not yet. It could undo everything if he discovers the extent of manipulations on his behalf too soon.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“You are not meant to,” Hela tells her, smiling again. “You are mortal, bound by mortal limits. You will understand, in time, but you are too close to the fire now, my dove. You must step back, lest you be burned.”

 

“’My dove?’” Steph asks as Hela begins to open a portal.

 

Hela looks over her shoulder, her eyes flickering with mischief. “It’s better than ‘chickie,’ would you not agree?”

 

Steph’s eyes open wide, but then she’s gone, falling at the feet of the All-Mother.

 

“Stephanie!” Iðunn gasps, helping her to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Hela kept me safe,” Steph says automatically. It even sounds true. “She said only the dead should fight Surtur, since the dead can’t die.” She giggles suddenly, wondering if Hela said something along the lines of  ‘what is dead may never die.’ “So she kept me safe. Thanks for the armor, it’s great.”

 

“You have bloodied your sword,” Freyja observes.

 

Steph nods. “Yeah. That happened.”

 

“It means you must now name it,” Gaea clarifies, bouncing her infant on her hip.

 

Steph looks at the sword, and then at the All-Mother. “Seriously?”

 

“It is no laughing matter,” Freyja reprimands.

 

Steph sighs, feeling a headache brewing. She glances at the sword, and thinks for a little bit. “Blackbat,” she says at last. “The sword in the darkness, never seen until it does its job.”

 

“That is a fine name,” Gaea says. “Sit down, Stephanie, you look dead on your feet.”

 

Do I? she wonders, before sitting down next to Gaea, and falls asleep in a moment.

 

So much for Bat-paranoia, she thinks before she loses consciousness. So much for it...

 

\--

 

Loki bursts into the chambers of the All-Mother, Thor at his heels, the entireity of Asgardia behind them. “All-Mother! Surtur is gone!”

 

“Sh,” Gaea hushes. “You will wake the child.”

 

At first Loki thinks—they all think—she means her child, but Iðunn steps aside and they see Stephanie leaning against the wall, dead to the world. “Where has she been?” Loki demands of the All-Mother.

 

Freyja glides forward. “The bigger question, little Loki, is what have _you_ done, releasing Odin from his exile?”

 

Thor and Loki look at each other. “We needed a place to put all of that energy that Surtur gathered,” Loki explains.

 

“Who else could be powerful enough?” Thor adds in response. “Se we released Odin, exploiting that which I know about our family—your union, to save us all.”

 

“Foolish children,” Freyja sighs, looking far older than a Vanir has the right to. “The price we will pay—“

 

“Is worth it,” Loki interjects. “Asgardia still stands.”

 

“Aye, it still stands,” Volstagg rumbles, stepping forward, taking off his helmet. “And we owe you an apology, boy.”

 

Loki blinks. “What?”

 

“Without the machinations of Loki, we would have been lost,” Thor informs the assembled. “He has saved us all, and we owe him a great debt.” Then, to Loki’s surprise, Thor turns to him and kneels. Volstagg follows, and then all of Asgardia is kneeling, even the All-Mother.

 

“I—I—“

 

“Don’t say anything,” Volstagg says, standing up again and putting his helmet back on. “You’ll spoil the moment.” He wraps an arm around Loki’s shoulders, turning him to face the crowd. “To Loki!”

 

“To Loki!” the crowd echoes.

 

“Now, we feast,” Volstagg winks at Loki. “Let me handle the details.”

 

“Who better?” he mutters, but it’s lost in the chatter. As the Asgardian assemblage leaves, loudly talking amongst themselves, he finds Gaea’s hand on his shoulder, and she smiles down at him.

 

“Oh, little Loki. We are so proud of you.”

 

“Stephanie? Is she all right?”

 

“M’okay,” Stephanie groans, standing up with some help. “Just tired.” She manages a smile for Loki, opening her arms to hug him and he rushes into them. “You did good, kid.”

 

“Coming from you, that means a lot,” he tells her.

 

Stephanie laughs. “Do we have your leave, All-Mother?”

 

“Of course,” Freyja says, but she still looks troubled. Likely an issue with Odin.

 

Stephanie leads them back to the tower, where she begins to strip off her armor carefully, Loki helping where he can. “How did you get out of the oubliette?”

 

“Daimon came to find me,” Stephanie yawns, ignoring Asgardian garments in favor of her jeans and purple sweatshirt. “He got me out, and then I teleported to you.”

 

“Why did Hela keep you behind?”

 

“To keep me safe,” Stephanie shrugs, zipping up the jacket. “She’s the ruler of Hel. I don’t argue with her.”

 

“You argue with Odin,” a strange feeling was creeping up on Loki, one he did not recognize. “What is the difference?”

 

“Odin’s a prick. Hela is...complicated.”

 

“She still killed Leah,” Loki realizes what it is.

 

Stephanie is _lying_ to him. Not necessarily about Hela’s complications, but about staying with Hela. She’s lying. For what purpose? What could they lose now?

 

He finds he does not wish to ponder the question.

 

“Yeah, but—“ Stephanie sighs. “I think it’s a makes sense in context thing, kid. She has a _much_ longer view than us.”

 

“What will you do now?” he changes the subject, uncomfortable with the idea of Stephanie lying to him.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Loki shrugs. “I’m as safe as I can be. Does this mean your debt is paid? Will you go home?”

 

“I don’t have much of a home left, kid,” Stephanie says quietly, leaning down to pull on regular socks and tennis shoes. She looks like when she arrived, and Loki wonders if that’s intentional. “Besides, this feels like home, now.”

 

“Will you and Daimon fall in love, then?” Loki shoves down his distaste. “You’d make pretty children.”

 

Stephanie stares, before laughing. “I have no idea, kid,” she says, calming down. “I’m still in love with Cass, but Cass would want me to be happy. I think I could be happy with Daimon, he hits all of my buttons—“

 

 _And other things_ , Loki thinks.

 

“—but I have no intentions of getting pregnant, and you know, I haven’t even gotten my period since I got here. So maybe I can’t get pregnant outside of my home dimension. But I want Cass, but I have no idea how to get her here.”

 

“She’s in Limbo, yes?”

 

“Well, that dwarf guy says it’s called the Place of All-Being, but pretty much, yeah. The _other_ thing I’ve heard about is that mortals can’t travel there and live, and I’m still very much human, so I have no idea about how that’s going to work out.” Stephanie stands up, her shoes properly laced. “I think I’m here for the immediate future, at least.”

 

Loki hugs her impulsively. “Well, I’m glad for you.” Outside the window, he sees light flash from Leah’s cave. “You should check in with Amora. She’ll be happy to see you alive.”

 

“Where are you going?” Stephanie asks, frowning.

 

Loki smiles, a brittle, awful thing. “Oh, I’m sure I can find something with which to occupy my time. Bye!”

 

Leah is tending to a fallen Daimon Hellstrom, and Loki feels his hackles rise before he shoves them down. If Daimon and Stephanie are to be together, Loki had best get used to the idea. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he demands of Leah.

 

Daimon comes to consciousness abruptly, his voice raspy. “Mephisto has the Fear Crown, Loki. He’s going to become King of all Hells...” Daimon falls back down, unconscious again.

 

“I found him here, delirious,” Leah explains. “I thought to get Stephanie, but you should know his news first.”

 

“That this should come back now,” Loki whispers. “We’ve been played and betrayed.”

 

“But by whom?” Leah asks sharply. “It was not me, I swear it.”

 

“No, I know it was not,” Loki closes his eyes. “Where has that infernal bird gotten to?” he thinks aloud.

 

“Loki, enough,” Leah says imperiously. “The pretense, enough.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Ikol is not real,” Leah says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’ve made him up, a mental barrier between who you are and who you were.”

 

Loki stares at her. “I’m not crazy—I’m _not_.”

 

Leah taps her foot. “Then why has no one ever seen him?”

 

Loki turns on his heels. “I need to think about this. I may be away for some time.”

 

“What about Hellstrom?” Leah calls after him.

 

“Let him die. Or live, it matters not to me.”

 

Loki returns to the library, the book that seems to know all. He reads the final quotation, about why Loki did it, and he does not bother to read the print beneath it. It is the same, so why waste his time?

 

He finds himself in that place of in-between again, and he sees the magpie perched in between the horns of the helmet. “Well, Mr Magpie?”

 

“I _did_ warn you I was the one you could not trust,” Evil Loki says mildly. “I was so tempted to play fairly—I even sent you Stephanie—but in the end, alas, Loki is Loki.”

 

“Oh, _enough_ , Evil Me,” Loki says furiously. “What torture device have you strapped me to now?”

 

“Seven magpies went on a journey to hide their source and destination from the few that would pursue. Eventually, one remained and he came to you. However—“ Evil Loki shrugs. As he begins his explanation, Loki begins to see the knot of the problem.

 

Just as Leah had been a magical construct, so too was he. Why had he not noticed? Why did Stephanie not notice?

 

 _You were only ten_ , that small, spiteful voice that usually comes from Ikol says inside. _She had assumed your lack of growth came with your age._

 

“Mephisto will take that seat today,” Evil Loki finishes.

 

“But there is still time,” Loki argues.

 

Evil Loki shrugs. “Perhaps for an eventual triumph, but you are still looking at the loss of billions of lives, and more enslaved.”

 

“However?”

 

“That crown is made of thoughts and dreams,” Evil Loki is far too casual about this. “If they ceased to be, so too the crown. The part of me that exists in your mind—if you allow it to overwrite your mind, allow me to take over, the crown would cease to exist.”

 

“There must be another way,” Loki whispers.

 

“A dead you is still _you_. Are there other ways, not for gods? Yes, but alas, no time. You delay even a day, Mephisto takes the crown and brings forth a hell even the minds of men cannot imagine.”

 

“So you did not wish to change,” Loki says flatly. “I was merely a tool.”

 

“No. Change is _all_ I desired, but for me, not for you, and I ensured that you knew that only Loki would sacrifice Loki to save himself.”

 

“What wordplay is this trickery?” he hisses, pulling away from Evil Loki. “You want my good name. I will not give it up without—“

 

“You have a chance to say goodbye,” Evil Loki cuts in. “A gift, from me to you: three conversations that cannot reveal the truth, and they must be private. No witnesses must remain. Transgress?” Evil Loki shrugs. “You forfeit all immediately.”

 

Loki swallows. “What about Stephanie? She was here at your behest.”

 

“I will return her to her lover,” Evil Loki says. “Nonexistence matters not as long as you are with those you love.”

 

Loki closes his eyes and sighs. “This I swear. But...I played the game as long as I could.”

 

“Aye, you did,” Evil Loki admits, turning to watch him go. “But the house always wins, Loki.”

 

Loki deems this not worthy of comment and leaves with no other reply. He must go to Hel, then to Thor, and if time permits, Stephanie. The one person who most deserves an explanation, for all that she’s done, and he cannot say anything other than goodbye.

 

He hates himself, and goes through the motions of banishing Leah back to the beginning of time. Thor still gives the best hugs this side of the universe, and he ascends the steps of the tower, to check in on Stephanie one last time.

 

She is asleep, clutching a pillow to herself. Her brow is peaceful, and he hates that he must leave her like this, but if he were to wake her up, she would ask questions he dared not answer, so he kisses her brow. “Sweet dreams, dear babysitter. Wake with Cassandra beside you, and stay safe.”

 

Stephanie smiles in her sleep, snuggling deeper into her bed.

 

Finally, he returns to the library and The Book, sees Evil Loki waiting for him. “Well, little Loki? Are you done?”

 

“Well and truly,” Loki cradles himself, trying not to cry. “So...what next?”

 

“The end,” Evil Loki says with some surprise. “What else could it be?”

 

“Oh, I can think of a few things,” a familiar voice drawls, and they turn to see Stephanie step out of the shadows, but Stephanie as he’s never seen her.

 

She wears a gown of deep purple, gold edging around the cuffs, hemline, and crew neckline of the gown. Her hair is loose and wavy, and she seems to glow. In the half-light of the green magic lighting this place, her eyes look purple. “You haven’t won, not yet,” Stephanie tells Evil Loki.

 

“What are you talking about?” Evil Loki is clearly shaken. Stephanie is not supposed to be here.

 

Stephanie chooses to ignore him, turning to Loki, crouching to look him in the eye. “You must assimilate your fears, Loki,” she says softly. “That’s the only way this can work. Do what he tells you to do, and trust me, okay? I swear I’ll explain once we’re out of this.”

 

“There will not be any explanation,” Evil Loki hisses.

 

Stephanie ignores him. “Do it, and I swear you’ll be all right. Choose to trust me on this.”

 

It is not altogether hard to do so, so he swallows and stands tall, Stephanie standing behind him. “What next?”

 

“Swallow the lie,” Evil Loki instructs, gesturing down to Ikol, glaring at Stephanie. “And for that, I am sorry.”

 

“I’m sure you are, but just not enough,” Stephanie’s presence is warm behind him, “But I’ve won, you cantankerous old villain.”

 

“No, I will change—“

 

“No, you will not,” Loki contradicts, looking down at the pliant Ikol, dreading what he must do next. “But _they_ will not let you stay the same. You will have to change, kicking and screaming though it may be.”

 

“Go on,” Stephanie whispers behind him, and Evil Loki’s mouth tautens, but Loki steels his courage and chooses to trust, chooses to make this sacrifice, and he closes his teeth upon Ikol.

 

He can feel his insides wriggling, and he is in terrible pain, but he finishes the bird, and he knows he must not retch, but he falls forward, losing consciousness, but the prevailing thought before he’s gone is that _he’s won and Loki lost, he’s won, he’s won..._

 

\--

 

Steph eyes the mess with distaste. “Well, that’s finished.”

 

“Whore, what have you wrought?” Evil Loki demands. He’s not changing, so what she wrote must have worked.

 

“I didn’t like the ending, so I changed it,” Steph shrugs. “Sorry. No tragedy for you, not today.”

 

“I will find you and kill you,” Old Loki hisses.

 

Steph raises an eyebrow. “You’d have to get out of this space first,” she says coolly, “so I’m not exactly shaking in my boots. And besides, Loki did all the hard work. He had to make a choice, probably the hardest choice that kid will ever have to make. All of your work’s undone, now. Even if Mephisto chooses to use the crown, and he might not, it’s useless.” She turns on her heel and points her finger at him. “Our debt is done, now. I’ll stay with the kid until he’s ready to protect himself, but I choose to stay out of love and loyalty, not because of duty. Do you understand?”

 

“Indeed,” Evil Loki says sourly.

 

“Good,” Steph shrugs. “Good riddance, you barmy bastard.”

 

She feels his eyes on her as she leaves, but she feels a sense of victory. ‘It’s only the end if you want it to be?’ No endings, not today.

 

Today, _everybody_ lives.

 

\--

 

Loki comes to abruptly. He looks down at himself, and realizes—he is himself. Stephanie told him to trust her, and he did, and he is...himself.

 

The Fear Crown?

 

But the fears that powered the Fear Crown—killing Thor, becoming his older, evil self—they no longer exist. He has killed Thor, but he _chose_ not to become evil. It will be a struggle each and every day, but he can choose, now. It is not written that that is who he will become.

 

He feels the flicker of magic inside him, and raises a glowing hand to light the candles.

 

There is no flap of magpie wings. He need never dread that sound again.

 

There is a knock at the door, and he turns to see Stephanie, her face drawn but lit internally. “Can I come in?”

 

“Tell me how you did it,” he demands, making room on his bed for her sit down next to him.

 

“You have Hela to thank for most of it,” Stephanie explains, folding her legs underneath her. “She knew what was going on, though I have no idea how. I found the book on Dark Asgard and changed your ending with the Twilight blade.”

 

“So _that’s_ why it went missing for a few moments,” Loki exclaims.

 

Stephanie’s smile transcends all realms. “Yeah. I used my blood to do it—Hela said it didn’t matter,” she holds up her bound wrist as proof. “You’re free from his shadow, now. And I talked to Mephisto, warned him about the Crown, but the strange thing is, so did Fear. I didn’t get a chance to see him, and maybe that’s for the best, but either way, if Mephisto tries to use the Crown now, it won’t work.”

 

“Because of that back door,” Loki remembers.

 

“Evil Loki didn’t intend for you to remember that,” Stephanie says with some authority. “And my debt to you is paid. I’ve saved your life.”

 

“Several times,” Loki giggles. “Though...will you leave me, now?”

 

Stephanie shrugs. “Why? I’ll stay until you’re grown up, but who knows how long baby Asgardians take to raise?” she tickles him to prove her point. He laughs, feeling lighter than he ever has. “You should go see Thor,” she tells him, standing up. “Tell him everything, this time. He deserves to hear the truth.”

 

“What will you do?”

 

“I think I’ll go see Leah. She and I haven’t had much of a chance to reconnect.”

 

Loki squirms for a moment. “I had Hela send her to the past, to protect her from my evil self.”

 

Stephanie is silent. “You used what information you had on hand to play as well you could. I can’t fault that.” She shrugs. “I’ll go see the All-Mother. They wanted me to come today anyway, Amora told me so last night.”

 

“Does Amora know what happened?”

 

“She and Hela are friends, so...maybe? I don’t know. I’m just glad it’s over.”

 

“Me too,” he whispers, hugging her fiercely. “I’ll see you later. I’m going to go find Thor.”

 

“You do that, kid,” she laughs to see him run from the room. It is not hard to find Thor—he is sparring with Sif, but upon seeing him, he stops the bout and vaults over the fence.

 

“Loki? You are feeling better from yesterday?”

 

The idea of yesterday’s shadow puts a smile on Loki’s face. “Yes. Thor, I need to talk to you.”

 

Thor’s brow furrows, but he nods to Sif and leaves the training ring, wiping the dust off his face with a towel. “What is it?”

 

Loki scrapes the ground with his foot. “I need to tell you the truth. About everything. And after that—we need to go on a journey, just the two of us.”

 

“Loki, I have responsibilities and so do you—“

 

“Thor, trust me, after you hear this, you will barely wait to dress yourself before we go.”

 

\--

 

“Stephanie,” Iðunn greets. She’s the only one standing. Gaea is sitting against a tree, playing with her child, and Freyja looks weary in her chair. “It is _good_ to see you.”

 

“We had thought there was a chance you might be gone by this morning,” Freyja adds.

 

“Why?”

 

“Amora told us everything, since Hela told _her_ everything,” Iðunn beams. “And you just a mortal! However did you manage it?”

 

“By thinking like a mortal, I guess,” Steph shifts from foot to foot. “You all...aren’t exactly great at finding Alexandrian solutions, you know.”

 

“Indeed,” Freyja sighs, rubbing her lower back. “There is something to be said for the virtue of a shorter lifespan.”

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

“To get Odin to leave us be, she had to make a deal,” Iðunn says, her voice hushed. “One that was quite patriarchal, but does Freyja listen to me? _No_.”

 

“We needed to prevent another Surtur situation,” Freyja says tiredly. “There was a deal made with Freyr, my brother, and Odin, millennia ago. That Odin and I would marry, and bear a child of Aesir and Vanir blood. I had thought Baldr would suit, but Baldr committed suicide.”

 

“So?” Steph is missing something here.

 

“That means he _cannot_ be the ruler Asgardia needs him to be,” Gaea says quietly. “Baldr committed suicide to keep Surtur in Limbo, but the rightful king must meet and defeat enemies of Asgardia here. That was not Baldr.”

 

“So...”

 

“I am pregnant, Stephanie,” Freyja says, wincing. “I remember why I did not enjoy the initial experience. It was the only way to get Odin back to Asgard-space and leave us be in peace. It is indeed most patriarchal, but Odin would agree to no other term to leave. What is nine months to those such as us?” She changes positions slightly in her chair, “though we tend to feel the effects much more keenly than mortal women. In that, you should be thankful.”

 

“But that is not why we called you here today,” Iðunn says, glaring quickly at Freyja before turning her smiles back on Steph. “We thought to give you something, an expression of our thanks.”

 

“That’s really not necessary,” Steph demurs.

 

“Oh, it is,” Gaea tells her. “It is fair. Iðunn?”

 

Iðunn tosses her a golden apple. Steph catches it, staring. “What?”

 

“We’re giving you an opportunity,” Freyja says softly. “To join us, be one of us, forever.”

 

“You’ve already made me an Asgardian citizen,” Steph frowns, turning the heavy fruit over in her hand. “Why give me this?”

 

“You have saved Asgardia from one of her worst threats,” Freyja stands up carefully, “Loki being a threat to Asgardia is no joke. Before he was himself as he is now, he constantly and consistently worked against our interests. By defeating him here, you have saved us from his conniving. That kind of effort cannot and will not go unrecognized. So thus we offer this to you, fair for fair.”

 

“I’m not exactly goddess material.”

 

“You may think so,” Freyja disagrees, putting an arm around Stephanie. “But I would say we need a goddess of second chances.”

 

“I have to think about this,” Steph says helplessly. “This is not a spur of a moment decision.”

 

“Indeed, you should not,” Iðunn nods. “Take all the time you need. These apples will never spoil.”

 

Steph ducks out from around Freyja’s arm and heads to the orchards, to think.

 

Stephanie Brown, immortal? What a laugh.

 

_But no one would comment on your mortality anymore. You could meet anyone on an equal playing field._

But I work best when I’m underestimated.

 

_You will be underestimated anyway. You are small and blonde._

Wow, okay then.

 

And what’s the deal about her magic? And Daimon, whom she likes but isn’t sure if she could love? And Loki? Her child? (well, she corrects, in a way).

 

And Cass? What would Cass say?

 

 _Cass would say to make your own decision. This is your own destiny you’re choosing. No one can force you to make this decision_.

 

Who believes in things like destiny anymore? My god.

 

Still, Stephanie takes days to brood, waiting for Loki. He and Thor have apparently gone off somewhere, according to Sif. Sif has no tolerance for brooding, and forces a couple of spars (Steph wins maybe 1 in 6, but that’s a change from 0 of 10), but Steph can only take so much practice before she rambles off. She listens to the stories Volstagg tells his kids, and he tries to get her on it, but she only shakes her head and listens.

 

Amora gives her a list of herbs and their usage to memorize, since Steph’s staying, she needs to have a stronger background in magic so as to be an adequate spy. They practice magic, but Steph’s concentration is just not there.

 

Where would Thor and Loki _go_?

 

Maybe a life-changing field trip, and it would do the both of them good, but she’s slowly realizing outside Amora, Sif, Loki, and the All-Mother, she has no ties to Asgardia.

 

She resolves to change this immediately.

 

Finally, Day 5 of Waiting For Thor and Loki to Come Back, the Buggers, she’s sitting on the floor of her spotless room (she’d cleaned it in a fit of pique yesterday), staring at the golden apple on the high shelf of her bookcase.

 

It taunts her with questions of what might be and what might not be. She’s thought of calling Daimon, to let him know everything’s okay, but she needs to work through this first.

 

Besides, since the world isn’t locked in flame _or_ eternal hell, he probably knows everything’s okay.

 

There’s a knock on her door and Loki bursts through. His clothes have seen better days and there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, but he’s beaming. “Stephanie, come downstairs.”

 

“Why?” she asks moodily, “oh child who leaves without a note.”

 

“Please, Stephanie,” he begs, not seeing the golden apple. “I promise, it’s good.”

 

“Oh fine,” she says begrudgingly.

 

She hauls herself to her feet and follows Loki downstairs at a much more sedate pace. Thor’s standing a little bit away from the door, talking to someone she can’t see, but when Loki bounds out calling, “She’s here!” Thor and his conversation partner turn to face the door and Steph’s breath explodes from her chest in a whoosh.

 

Cass. Holy shit, _Cass_.

 

“It’s really her,” Loki babbles. “We went to the Place of All-Being,” she tunes him out, eyes wide, as she takes a step forward.

 

Cass’s smile is breathtaking, and she just can’t wait any longer, and she practically flies down what could be called a ‘road’ and Cass matches her, until they’re there, and Steph whirls her around and Cass _laughs_ and the sound is so delightful that Steph just has to kiss her and—

 

the

 

world

 

just

 

_stops_

 

Cass’s weight is warm, solid, _familiar_ , and her taste is as it ever was, a mix of assam tea and dark chocolate and her scent is still that of warm honey and oh god Steph has missed her so fucking much.

 

“Can we be alone?” Cass manages to say once they’ve broken apart.

 

“Yeah, I know where,” Steph smiles. “We’ve never had been together in sunlight, have we?”

 

Cass is blushing, and that’s new, but Steph doesn’t mind it, taking Cass’s hand and leading her to the orchards. Cass inhales deeply as they pass the ripening apples that Iðunn loves. “This place— is it happy for you?”

 

“Now that you’re here,” Steph grins, falling down into the shade of one of the bigger trees, tugging Cass down with her. Cass goes readily enough, lying on top of her, their bodies glued together from chest to upper thighs, and yes, sleeping with a guy is fun, and awesome, but there’s nothing quite like a girl’s curves.

 

Cass frames Steph’s face with her hands and kisses her, sucking gently on her lip before asking for permission, and Steph grants it, opening her mouth to Cass and letting their tongues touch. They lay like that for a bit, just getting used to each other again, before Cass pulls back to breathe. “Was that a welcome home kiss?” Steph whispers.

 

“Yes,” Cass tells her.

 

The next kiss is not so gentle, but Steph doesn’t mind. Cass bites Steph’s lower lip, sucking on it, and Steph shifts, feeling the telltale rush that accompanies her arousal. Cass laughs against Steph’s mouth. “Long time?”

 

“Since a girl, yes,” she admits. “I have a guy friend here, and he and I...” she hopes Cass isn’t jealous.

 

Cass isn’t. “If he has made you happy, that is all I care about,” Cass assures her, sitting up and starting to unzip Steph’s sweatshirt. Steph lets her, sitting up so it can be moved out of the way. “Perhaps you might even let me watch, the two of you.”

 

Steph stares. “What?”

 

“I would like to know what he does, so I may do it better,” Cass tells her.

 

Steph chokes on a laugh as she starts to unbutton Cass’s shirt. “You are so much better,” she assures Cass. “He’s not soft, not like you are.” Cass, as usual, isn’t wearing a bra under her shirt, and Steph licks one of Cass’s nipples. When Cass’s breath hitches, Steph closes her mouth over the bud, alternating between sucking and rolling the tip between her teeth. Cass is beginning to pant and her hips are jerking a little. “Not yet,” Steph teases, knowing how sensitive Cass is here. They’d once dared each other to make the other come without touching their ladyparts, and Cass is _really_ sensitive there. “I haven’t tasted you in years.”

 

“Well, invitation like that,” Cass says, laying back on Steph’s sweatshirt, lifting her hips so that Steph can lift off her pants and underwear, and then Steph takes a deep breath, layering butterfly kisses all over Cass’s tummy and upper thighs, finally ending at Cass’s pussy when Cass says, strangled, “ _Please_.”

 

Cass’s clit is shy, so Steph coaxes it out with lips and tongue. She knows better than to suck on Cass’s clit after the first time—it’s _overly_ sensitive, and is best stimulated from the side, so that’s what Steph does, before diving down to Cass’s entrance, carefully pushing her tongue in.

 

Cass tastes like she always has, sweet with a little salt. Either way, this, more than anything else, tells Steph that yes, Cass is really here, and with the kind of enthusiasm that happiness inspires, Cass is coming, her fingers clenched in Steph’s hair, fighting the urge to clap her thighs to Steph’s head.

 

“We usually go for a little more foreplay,” Steph says after riding it out, “but you seemed to be okay with it.”

 

“Your turn,” Cass says determinedly.

 

“No, I’m okay—“

 

“Your. Turn.”

 

It’s Cass’s turn to press Steph back, and Steph can’t help but sigh. “If you _insist_...”

 

_And they lived happily ever after._

 

Well, kind of.

 

But those stories belong to another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so in case you didn't know, I really didn't like the ending to JiM when I realized what had happened, and I wrote a fair amount of it on my Tumblr (inkteller, search tag 'kieron gillen' if you're really curious). 
> 
> One of my biggest issues with crossovers is that it is too easy to allow the crossing-over fandom to take over and prevent the ending the reader hates (ex: getting Dean and Sam Winchester to call in every favor they have in regards to Hell to stop the Chitauri invasion in Avengers. Yes, I read that. No, I was not a fan), because even if it prevents an ending, it also doesn't exactly allow for the home character's in-universe Crowning Moment of Badass.
> 
> And Loki has a couple of Crowning Moments of Badass in the last couple of issues of JiM/Mighty Thor, and I didn't want to take them away from him.
> 
> So I had to separate Steph and Loki, allow Steph her own moments of badass as well as laying the trails for the sequel (yes, there will be a sequel, no, I don't know when I'll publish it, and it will not be a behemoth like this fic. Maybe 50k, tops, I'm thinking). I wanted Herald!Leah and Steph to interact, but I couldn't make the narrative work with it, so I'm sorry, on that front. But you do get Hela and Steph bonding (which will be very important later), so I considered it even.
> 
> I'm not sure yet if I'm going to write Thor and Loki's Life Changing Field Trip. I know what happened, but at the same time, the journey would introduce some characters I'm saving for the sequel, and I'd rather write the sequel so that the reader can experience what Steph experiences with the same idea of 'holy shit, what's going on?' If you message me on Tumblr, I'll be more than happy to give you the synopsis of the trip, but I'm devoting what free time I have to the sequel, and I'd really rather not let that stretch on six months, like this fic did.
> 
> Yes, you read that right.
> 
> Finally, a couple of thank-yous.
> 
> Even though I'm starting to dislike him, I need to thank Kieron Gillen, because Journey into Mystery was a fantastic read, even though the twist does not hold up. He created a world, and I merely played in it, and fleshed it out a bit more.
> 
> Bryan Q Miller, because his Steph is fantastic (yes, some of the sketchier aspects of her history is glossed over, but that WILL be addressed in the sequel, so yeah), and I read over his run very carefully to get that Steph would make the references she would (with the exception of Game of Thrones, but when I work the timelines out, I don't think the show started airing until his run was ending, and by that point, the scripts had been locked in, BUT I do believe that if his run went on longer or GoT began airing earlier, there would have been references. It's too damn quotable for him not to take advantage of it).
> 
> Finally, to fourofthem, who can attest that I bugged them over the six months I wrote this by messaging stuff like 'HOLY SHIT I JUST REACHED 50K DAFUQ I'M NOT EVEN DONE YET'. THANK YOU. This fic is dedicated to you, and the fact that you put up with my whining. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I know this isn't exactly a brief read, which is what I originally intended, but thank you for spending time on it, and to everyone who has left comments and kudos, I BLESS YOU BEFORE YOUR ANCESTORS.


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